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svnflowervol666 · 4 years ago

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Ma Petite Chérie: Christmas Then (Harry Styles x fem!Reader)

Read more from this little universe, Ma Petite Chérie, in my masterlist!

Word Count: 6k

Summary: It’s the happiest time of the year, but it couldn’t be more miserable for Harry and Y/N.

Author’s Note: Reupload because it wasn’t working in the tags! Here is the first of two Christmas bits for Harry, Y/N and Tallulah! I’ve told you all that I planned on writing about Harry and Y/N breaking up early on in their relationship, so I decided to add a little Christmas spirit into the mix in honor of the season. I promise, the next part isn’t this sad. I always feel like I’m not that great at writing angst, mostly because it hurts my heart too much, but I hope I did this story enough justice. Feedback is greatly appreciated, it helps to keep me going and to write things that you guys actually want to read. Any who, enjoy! The next part will be up by the end of the month. Take care and TPWK.

Harry had never thought that a night out with his colleagues would cost him his world. It was supposed to be a celebration of another successful year at his job, nothing more. It was supposed to be dinner, a few rounds of whiskey with his team, and an early night back to the two girls he loved the most who waited impatiently for his return. It wasn’t supposed to be a trip to the club, where the bass in the speakers replaced Harry’s own heartbeat and made his mind temporarily forget where his priorities lied. He thought that he’d only be there long enough to not seem like an uptight asshole that didn’t care to have any fun, but alas. Harry can be quite the pushover, and quickly slipped into that inedbriated state that often persuades you to do things you know you shouldn’t.

Harry had certainly thought wrong.

Y/N, on the other hand, was only supposed to be gone long enough to clear her head. Steam was practically billowing out of her at lightspeed the night this all happened. It would later be referred to as “The-Incident-That-We-Don’t-Speak-About-Because-It’s-Painful-Too-Even-Think-About” in the future, but right now, it consumed her. Every little detail of that night and the argument that followed haunted her like a reoccurring bad dream that she couldn’t shake. The way he smelled like cigarettes from keeping his coworkers company on the club’s smoking patio, the way his eyes were glassy from one (or two) ((or three)) too many shots of tequila, the way he yelled at her. She had assured him that all she needed was time to think, and then she’d be back to talk. At the time, she had told him that she quite frankly didn’t want to even be in the same postal code as him, so she left. All that was in the duffle bag she packed in four minutes flat was her toothbrush, face wash, and enough clothes to get her through the weekend while she cooled off at her friend’s apartment.

She didn’t plan on being gone for sixteen days.

A lot had occurred to her in her time away from Harry. One, was that this was the first time they had fought. Ever. She’d always wondered if her time with Harry would ever stop feeling like a fairytale that only existed in novels and storybooks. Everything about the two of them was picture-perfect from its conception, and had somehow only gotten sweeter as the years had passed. She firmly believed that they weren’t like everybody else, those that put on a charade around others, but were unbearably miserable in private. She had started to think that maybe it was supernatural, the way that they fit together so perfectly that she thought no one else on the planet could make her feel the way Harry does, perfectly complete and peaceful. But it was turning out to be as simple as the age-old saying, life is not always rainbows and butterflies.

Two, was this really what Y/N wanted? She didn’t give it a second thought when it came to Harry having a child, quickly stepping into the role of being someone important in Tallulah’s life. And Harry let her, too. As cautious as he is about who he involves his daughter with, it was almost scary the way he let her in and allowed her to love and care for her. Yes, scary. Scary, because children are permanent and they are hard work and they include making sacrifices that sometimes don’t seem fair. So, Y/N had been asking herself if this was where she saw herself staying, as she had too big of a heart to become such an important character in Tallulah’s life to decide somewhere down the line that she suddenly didn’t want to be tied down anymore. It wasn’t fair to the poor girl, just a measly four years old, to have to go through losing someone that had promised to love her forever. Twice.

Deep down, she knew that this, Harry’s modest yet still lavish home with a pastel yellow door and vegetable garden out back that was often littered with dolls and abandoned sun hats from the cutest little thing that Y/N had ever seen, was where she wanted to be. But this brought her to the third thing she had pondered whilst she rotted on her friend’s uncomfortable sofa at 2 a.m. as she’d waited for her melatonin supplements to enter her system and send her off into a subdued state.

Could she ever forgive him for what he said?

It was just one week before Christmas. Harry texted her at least once everyday, Y/N only replying to the ones when he’d asked her if she was ready to talk, to which she’d tell him that she wasn’t, and that she promised she’d tell him when she was. Part of her stayed away from him for so long because she feared that somehow, deep down, the right thing to do was to stay away forever, and that was certainly going to be the worst day of her life. It would be for the better, Y/N thinks, if that is the case, but she’s trying very hard not to think about that being the endgame for her and Harry. Hence the inner turmoil that’s consuming Y/N’s body whole.

Sarah had promised her that Harry wasn’t coming. They sided with her on this one, she’d said, thus rescinding his invitation to her and Mitch’s annual holiday party. It felt somewhat wrong to be going to see Harry’s friends without him, especially given the fact that they’d more or less been split up for the past two weeks. But as much as they were Harry’s friends, they were also hers too. Harry really knew how to pick the ones he held closest - they were good people. He knows how to chose them because Harry is also a good person and Y/N knows this, and that makes it all the more painful when she pulls into the car park designated for guests of the condominium where Mitch and Sarah lived.

They’d seemed a bit off when they welcomed her into the sizey flat with the small, wrapped gift she’d brought for their exchange, but Y/N dismisses their seemingly rehearsed greetings as pity. Although the last thing she wants is to talk about Harry, she finds their condolences and overall presence soothing. She hadn’t seen much aside from her friend that she’d been staying with and her overweight, powder white cat these days, so human interracton in any capacity was refreshing.

Until it wasn’t.

The longer she stood in the circle of the others that came to the party, mindlessly nodding along to whatever was being said but not actually paying any attention, the longer she was left to sit with her thoughts. She remembers the three other times she’d come to Mitch and Sarah’s for this exact party, and how warm and loved she felt. Right now, all she feels is the cold radiating off of the sliding glass door that she’s leaning on and loneliness. To Y/N, it almost felt like everyone in the room knew what had happened to her and Harry. Like they were trying too hard to be cordial with her because they saw her as the girl that Harry yelled terrible things at and did terrible things too. It was overbearing and she had to get out before she exploded.

Finding aid in the very sliding glass door that chilled her to the bone, she wandered out on the patio to get away from the noise that was so loud yet so quiet at the same time. Tiny snowflakes coated the railing and the outdoor furniture, enough to illuminate her surroundings in an almost purple glow despite the time of night. If Tallulah were here, she’d convince Y/N to catch them on her tongue with her. Any other time, a thought like that would have made her smile, but right now it just made her sad. She wasn’t wearing a coat, yet she couldn’t find herself to care in this moment.

She wanted Harry. She wanted Harry there with her, whispering in her ear that Josie is full of herself and will say anything to get people’s attention and that he thinks they should ditch the party early so they can “warm each other up” at home. Despite the ache in her bones that wished for him, she couldn’t stop thinking about the last time she saw him.

“You’re lying.”

“Wha’ are you talkin’ about, Y/N?” he was swaying back and forth where he stood, clearly too drunk to keep his balance.

He almost sounded annoyed, but it was moreso because she’d interrupted his treck to the bedroom where his warm bed was waiting for him to ail his drunkenness and less because of her prodding.

“Clara was there, Harry. At the club. The one you forgot to tell me you were going to? She saw you. Talking to her. Any of that ring a bell?”

She made sure not to raise her voice in fear of waking up the toddler that had fallen asleep on the sofa waiting for her dad to come home so she could show him the ornaments she’d made with Y/N while he was gone, but he hadn’t come home when he’d promised her. Y/N wasn’t trying to fight, just get some answers. Yet here Harry stood, in their bathroom, lying to her face.

“Okay. So she was there ‘n we talked. We work for the same people. You’re not tellin’ me your mad that I talked t’ her about work, are yeh? Talked t’ her about work at a work party?”

“I’m not stupid, Harry. Stop doing that.”

Harry huffed in annoyance, as if her mere presence was beginning to cause his disdain.

“Then stop actin’ like it was somethin’ that it wasn’t. Swear t’ you. She came up to me, asked how Lulah had been, we talked about work for a second, and that was it. Fuck, even told her about you for christ’s sake.”

“I couldn’t care less that you talked to her, Harry. It’s the fact that you didn’t tell me you’d be out later than you said, went to a club, talked to her, the girl that broke your fucking heart, and I found out from a friend. And when I asked you about it, you lied. Do you see how fucking bad that looks?”

“Why don’t yeh ask Clara what she saw, hmm? Since you’re so keen on taking her word for it. She’s gonna tell you that nothing. Happened. I’m truly sorry I didn’t tell yeh I’d be out late. Didn’t think I’d be gone that long and just got carried away.”

Y/N was fighting tears now. He was talking in circles, unwilling to see her side and acknowledge that he’d done wrong.

“That’s what you’ve been saying for the past month, Harry. You’re always getting carried away with work and leaving me to take care of her. I can’t tell you how many times Tallulah’s asked why you’re always missing dinner and why you don’t go take her to her ice skating lessons or help her wash her hair anymore. She misses you. So do I. And then you go and do this. I know you’re busy this time of year but I also know you’re doing more than you’re being asked of, so don’t pull that shit with me. Would it kill you to come home every now and then and at least eat some pasta with your fucking daughter?”

Harry’s brows were furrowed together, eyes dark and half-shut in what was the beginning of a drunken rage. For a split second, Y/N saw a flicker of sadness within the deep green of his irises, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“Yeh say that like she’s a burden. ‘S that it? You’re mad that you have t’ babysit?”

“Harry,” Y/N warned him.

He was treading territory that would be hard to back away from once he took the first step.

“What? If it was that big of a fuckin’ deal, you could have told me that you don’t like keeping after her.”

“Jesus, it’s not!”

She was yelling now, unable to keep her emotions from getting the best of her. She looked after Tallulah like she was the one that had given birth to the four year old that slept peacefully on the couch, cuddling her stuffed elephant in place of her father.

“You know that I love her and that I’d do anything for her, but it’s different when you leave me alone with her all of the time. She needs you, Har. More than she needs me, and you’re acting like your job is more important than her. You have to be there for her, Harry.”

A nasty scoff left Harry’s chest that would haunt Y/N forever. She’d never forget what he said next.

“Right. Thanks for the parenting tip. Last time I checked you weren’t her fucking mu-”

“Yeh gonna freeze t’ death out here, ya know?”

The same voice that plagued her head pulled her out of reliving the events that landed her here, on a snow-covered patio, just as the first of what she knew were going to be many tears rolled down her face.

Y/N whipped her head around, frowning when she realized that Sarah and Mitch had lied to her and that they definitely had invited both of them to the Christmas party.

“Should have known those two were up to something,” was all she replied, quickly swiping the single, stray tear that stung her cheek as it touched the cold air.

“Jesus, you’re shivering. Here,” Harry began shrugging off his coat, ready to offer it to Y/N to keep her from catching pnuemonia.

She hadn’t realized just how cold she was. Her lips felt like they were going to crack at any moment, and she was almost certain it would take upwards of an hour for her to feel her toes again.

“Harry-” Y/N started, her voice sounding soft and defeated.

“Please don’t be stupid, Y/N. You’re gonna get sick.”

He spoke to her in the way that he would Tallulah when she refused to let him brush her hair after a bath, sternly insisting that she’d wake up with painful knots in her head if she didn’t let him run a comb through it. There was something comforting about it, but also something so incredibly sad about it all at the same time.

Reluctantly and without looking him directly in the eyes, she took the long, fur-lined coat from his hands, almost flinching when she accidentally touched pinkies with him. The coat was well-loved, ridden with his scent and most likely permanently stained with a little bit of spit up from when Tallulah was a baby. It smelled like home, Y/N thought.

There was a long pause between them, neither knowing what to say or where to even start. Y/N found herself missing Harry even more now that he was standing right next to her, brawny arms leaning against the frozen railing.

“How’s Lulah?” she asked, able to find her voice amongst the anxiety prodding every inch of her body.

Harry nodded as if to say she was alright, then cleared his throat.

“Good. Misses you.”

He wanted to tell her that he missed her, too. A whole fucking lot. But he was trying to prolong having that conversation in fear that it wouldn’t end the way he’d planned it in his head and she’d walk away from him forever.

“She asks about you every day. ‘Bout when you’re comin’ home. Said she doesn’t like how quiet it is without your music playing in the kitchen.”

She was crying now. Fat, wet, silent tears in the opposite of Harry’s direction so he couldn’t see. She missed hearing Tallulah’s raspy voice asking her question after question about where eggs come from and why anyone would dare take away someone’s babies the way farmers do with mummy chickens.

“I know you’re not ready to talk,” Harry began.

“But do yeh think you could at least come home? It doesn’t feel right without you there.”

Y/N did what she could could manage the tears streaming down her face like a waterfall, hoping Harry would think her face was just cold as she aggressively rubbed her cheeks with her fists.

She was ready to give in, seeing him in person immediately shattering any bit of strength to stay away from him that she had left. Maybe she’d find some clarity if she stopped sleeping on a pull-out sofa that did absolutely nothing for her already-bad back and went back to where she’d lived for over a year with the two people she felt like she’d spent a lifetime loving.

Slowly, her eyes went to meet his. She saw how tired he looked, for lack of a better word. Even though it was dark, the light from the snow accentuated the deep circles under his eyes. His hair looked like it hadnt been washed in days, the way it used to look when Tallulah was a baby that cried at all hours of the night. His posture was, to be quite honest, shittier than it normally was. Y/N knows it hasn’t been that long since she’d been gone, but she could almost swear he looked skinnier than the last time she’d seen him, given that the hollows of his cheeks looked concave and scrawny.

Just as she parted her surely-blue lips, ready to tell him everything she’d wanted to tell him for the past two weeks, the ringing of Harry’s cell phone caused them both to jump.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“’M sorry. It’s mum. She’s got Lulah. Give me just one second.”

His eyes were pleading, almost like he was silently begging her not to run off if that’s what she was thinking of doing. Y/N’s ears perked up at the mention of his mother. She wondered if she knew about any of this. Surely she did, as Harry tends to confide in her for just about everything.

She was trying not to be nosy, but it appeared that Anne was speaking quite loudly, so it was a bit hard for her not to. She couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying, but she did hear one word. It was clear as day, and she knew immediately that something was wrong.

Raspberries.

Y/N’s head whipped around in Harry’s direction, and she saw the way his face was void of all color and his chest had started to heave.

“That’s never happened before. Did you give her the antihistamine?....What’s she sayin’?....Jesus Christ, mum. You have to calm down. Just go ahead and take her. I’ll meet yeh there. They’ll probably just have t’ give her a shot or somethin’....Mum, it’s alright. You didn’t know. Just get her in the car, please. I’ll be there in twenty.”

Harry clicked his phone off and shoved it in his back pocket, a sense of urgency taking over him.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’ve got t-”

“What happened?”

Y/N was just as worried as Harry was, feeling sick to her stomach that something clearly awful had happened to her.

“Mum’s watching Rosie, too. Lulah got into the bag Gem packed for her and ate somethin’ with raspberries in it. Said her throat feels scratchy, which is-”

“That’s not normal,” Y/N stated, being keenly aware of how Tallulah only ever tends to break out in a slight rash every time she eats the bright pink fruit.

“Yeah,” Harry replied.

“Y/N, I have t’ go. But I really want to talk t’ you. You don’t have t’ say anything back. Just hear me out, yeah? Please don’t disappear on me again.”

She wasn’t listening to him, only worried about the little girl with too many allergies and a keen interest in anything sweet.

“Can I go with you?”

Her voice was quiet, as if she were afraid of Harry telling her that she wasn’t allowed to see his daughter. She knew it was his decision and that she had to respect it, but all she wanted to do was hold her tiny body in her arms and tell her how much she missed her and that she was going to be alright.

Harry stuttered a bit, clearly not expecting her to ask him such a thing. Part of him was happy that she was willingly offering to be near him, but he supposes it’s only got to do with her worry for his daughter.

“I, erm, uh, yeah. Of course. Let’s go. Mum’s taking her t’ the hospital over by her house.”

He ushered her back into the warm apartment and back out the front door towards his car. They couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge the stares thrown their way.

The car ride was quiet. Harry had left the radio off during his drive to Mitch and Sarah’s, too busy rehearsing what he was going to say to Y/N if she actually let him talk to her. Y/N sat with her knees to her chest, but opted not to turn away from him. That was a good sign, Harry thought. The heat was on, but Y/N was still freezing. She supposes Harry was right about her getting sick.

“Could you drive a little faster?” Y/N asked after some time, fiddling with the cuff of her jeans.

“No,” Harry retorted.

“It’s snowing, Y/N. Don’t need all three of us t’ end up in the hospital.”

She had half the nerve to roll her eyes at him, but she knew he was right.

“Hey,” Harry called out to her.

He started to reach over the center console for her hand out of habit, but felt his heart sink into his stomach when he remembered the state of their relationship and slowly retracted it. He thought she didn’t notice, but she did.

“She’s gonna be fine. Mum said she wasn’t even crying. Probably just needs a few shots t’ make the swelling go down.”

Y/N nodded instead of responding, sinking further into the seat but keeping her eyes on the snowy road ahead of her.

Silence took over again as they trecked through the snow towards Tallulah, with tension so thick it felt suffocating. From the corner of her eye, she saw a pair of Tallulah’s winter gloves tucked into one of the cup holders and she wanted to cry again.

But instead of doing that, she laid her palm face-up on the console, waiting for Harry’s eyes to catch them. When they did, he hesitated, flickering between her hand and her face. She still wasn’t looking directly at him, but he knew she knew he was looking at her.

He tested her first, lying his hand next to hers, but not touching. She didn’t pull her hand away, and he swears when he looked down, he saw her hand inch towards his as if she were coaxing him. Harry thinks this might be the last time he gets to touch her if she decides that she can’t forgive him for what he said, so he goes for it.

He laces his fingers with hers, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief take over his head and his heart when he finally got to feel her skin against his after what felt like centuries. She doesn’t wrap her fingers around his like he did to hers, her hand still lying limp against the arm rest, but he’s okay with that.

It isn’t until they’re pulling into the hospital that Y/N gives Harry’s hand a squeeze.

They were getting there. At least Harry hoped.

Y/N is physically unable to keep herself from smiling when she hears Tallulah practically squeal her name the second she steps into the room she’d been given. Her voice was deeper than usual, most definitely due to the accident that landed her here in the first place. Tallulah all but jumped out of her bed to greet her with a hug, which Y/N accepted without a second thought as she wrapped her arms around the small girl and sat with her on the bed, most likely staining Harry’s coat with the emollient cream they’d coated her rash with at the hospital. As if that coat could take any more beatings.

Harry watched from the corner, feeling somewhat out of place for whatever reason. He knew he owed Y/N an apology for what he said to her that night, and at that moment he felt like he owed Tallulah one, too. How could he say those things to her? How could he let his arrogance get the best of him and ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to him?

Anne briefed him while Tallulah had her mini-reunion with Y/N, letting him know they’d given her a few shots and could go home as soon as the swelling in her throat had gone down. She wouldn’t stop apologizing to Harry for causing her grandbaby harm, but Harry assured her for the twentieth time that accidents happen and that it certainly could have been worse. Anne soon sensed the tension between Harry and who she hoped would be her daughter-in-law one day, and told Harry she’d better get going because she’d left Rosie with the neighbor. Her eyes urged Harry to fix this shit at all costs because she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and Harry was not one to disobey his mother.

“Are you coming home?” Harry heard Tallulah ask Y/N.

He locked eyes with her for a split-second.

“Yeah,” Y/N sighed.

Harry felt his heart jump as he was now paying extra attention to the woman holding his daughter like she was the most precious thing on earth.

“Gotta make sure you get tucked into bed alright.”

And then it sunk.

“Will you be there when I wake up?” Tallulah asked with eerily familiar green eyes peering up at Y/N from her lap.

This time it was her heart that sunk.

“I....don’t know, Lulah. We’ll see,” she whispered, feeling tears pool in her eyes once again.

Y/N hid her face in Tallulah’s hair, for fear that Harry would see her.

“How’s Carrot, hmm? ‘S he doing good?” Y/N blurts out in diversion, hoping Tallulah would be more interested in talking about the fish Y/N had won her at a carnival a few years ago than where she stood with her and Harry.

Tallulah talked her ear off, filling her in on everything she’d missed while she was gone. She tells Y/N that their kale plant in the garden was huge now, seemingly sprouting overnight. She also tells Y/N that Rosie can walk now, or at least can wobble a few steps before falling down on her bum.

Harry watches as Y/N pretends like everything Tallulah is telling her is the most interesting news she’s ever heard. That’s what parents do, and that’s exactly what Harry had shouted at Y/N that she wasn’t. He had fucked up in the worst way and only fate could tell him whether or not he’d be able to fix it.

It was Harry’s turn to cry now, pretending to rub exhaustion out of his eyes rather than tears. Much like earlier when he’d instinctively reached for her hand, he’d hoped she didn’t see it.

She did.

Y/N kept her promise to Tallulah and tucked her into bed after she was discharged and sent home with a steroid pack and rash cream. She willed away the wave of nausea she felt walking into the house she’d shared with Harry after all of this time, telling herself that she just needed to make sure Tallulah knew she was at least there to tuck her in. She took turns with Harry, each of them running their fingers through her curls and telling her to have sweet dreams and that they hoped she felt better in the morning. Tallulah insisted that she was fine and wanted to stay up and talk to Y/N about what she thought Santa was doing right now and if he was going to bring her the glittery nail polish that she’d asked him for, but the sleepiness in her eyes told a different story.

“Do you want me t’ call Sarah and have her take you back to your car?” Harry asked when they returned to the living room where they’d entered.

“Figured we ought to have that talk,” she said, unable to meet his eyes for the umpteenth time that night.

“Yeah,” Harry replied in a tone that almost sounds like relief.

“We can definitely do that.”

The pair find their way to the couch, sitting faced towards each other, but not touching. It’s awkward and it makes Y/N want to fall apart because this is her Harry and she’s in her own home, yet it didn’t quite feel it.

“You hurt my feelings,” is all she says, picking at a loose thread on the sofa.

“I know I did,” Harry began.

“I can’t take any of that back, but I want you t’ know how sorry I am, Y/N. None of that shit was true. I should have told you I was gonna be out late. Shouldn’t have even gone out with them, t’ be honest. I couldn’t even tell yeh why I lied when you asked if I saw her there. Just didn’t want you t’ get the wrong idea, I guess.”

“Harry, I already told you that I didn’t care that you-”

“I know yeh did,” Harry interjected, “But I want you t’ know that I’d never even think about doing something like that t’ you. You’re quite literally the best thing that’s ever happened t’ me. Sometimes I don’t even think you’re real. I wouldn’t have made it without you. Neither would Lulah. And that...”

He pauses, trying not to burst into tears right in front of her. Y/N sees his jaw tensing, something Tallulah does when she’s attempting to calm herself down after throwing a fit. She isn’t sure why, but she begins to feel at ease the longer he talks. Maybe it’s just hearing the sound of his voice after so long or maybe it’s because he’s telling her what she’s been wanting to hear, what she was once afraid that she’d never be able to.

“That shit I said about you not being Lulah’s mum. That’s a load. I know you know that. You are her mum, whether she knows that or not. I’m sure she does... I know she does. You’ve been there for everything. You never complain when it gets hard. Yeh could’ve been doing anything else besides helping my sorry ass take care of her, but you didn’t. ‘M not sure if I’m doin’ a good job of convincing you to stay, wouldn’t blame you if yeh didn’t want to, but I really hope that you do. If you don’t, I still want yeh t’ know that you’re her mum. You’ve done things for her that she doesn’t even realize. She loves you so much, Y/N. And so do I. You’re the love of my life. Always will be. I don’t think there’s anybody else out there that makes me feel the way you do. You’re it for me and I need you t’ know that.”

He’s blubbering now, not caring that she sees the salty streaks subconsciously flowing from his dark and gloomy eyes. He felt it coming. She was going to leave. She was going to finish packing tonight and walk out of his life and he wouldn’t get to spend the rest of his life showing her how much he loved her.

That’s when he feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s light, but it’s meant to be comforting.

“Can it be my turn now?” her voice laced with tears as well.

Clearly it was a night for crying.

Harry nods, because that’s all he can do.

“I was frustrated, that night. I don’t think I should have made as big of deal out of you staying out so la-”

“No. You should have. I was being an ars-”

“Harry,” she pleads, “Let me finish, please.”

He lets out a shaky, “Okay,” and she continues.

“It’s not a big deal when you go out with your friends. You’ve just been so....absent lately and that was what set me off. When Clara called me that night it was just so, embarrassing I guess? I didn’t know what to say to her, and it obviously didn’t look good. But I know you wouldn’t do that to me. You’re a good person and a good dad, Harry. I hope you know that, even if you don’t feel like it right now. And the Lulah thing...that hurt. A lot. I know you’re stubborn and hate admitting that you’re wrong, so I’m going to let that speak for itself, but I’ve never once regretted anything that I’ve done with you two. I knew it would be different being with you, but I’ve never thought of any of this as a sacrifice or a burden. You guys make me so happy. I don’t think you’ll ever understand how much of a privilege this has felt like to me, to be able to watch her grow up and be a part of it. She is the most magical thing that’s ever happened to me. And so are you.”

Harry’s staring at her, still crying, sillhouette lit up by the lights on the Christmas tree behind her that’s decorated with the ornaments she made with his daughter on that dreadful night. He doesn’t want to hurt Lulah’s feelings, but he makes a mental note to throw them away the second he’s able to so he doesn’t have to think about this ever again.

“I love you, Harry. Please don’t ever lie to me again. Even if it’s about how many minutes you are away from the grocery store. I can’t take it. And I can’t stand to feel so far away from you like this. It’s....gross. And I hate it.”

He perks up at what she’s just said, wondering if she’s saying what he thinks she’s saying.

“You’re staying?” he sounds hoarse and both him and Y/N know he’ll wake up in the morning with a headache from how much he’d been crying.

“Don’t think I have it in me to leave, bubs.”

There’s the slightest hint of a smile on her lips, and Harry’s pulling her into his chest. She holds him as he weeps silently into her neck. The cloud of sadness that had held her captive like a nightmare rushed out of her body so quickly that she couldn’t quite process it. All she felt now were Harry’s arms holding her close and his blubbering into her hair about how he was sorry over and over again.

“I know you are,” Y/N cooed, scratching his scalp in the way that she knew calmed him down.

“‘M gonna keep sayin’ it until you believe me,” he whimpered.

“I do believe you, Harry. I promise. We’re gonna be alright.”

That seemed to steady him a bit as he collected himself. He still held her as his shaking breaths began to even out. He wouldn’t dream of letting her go ever again.

“We’re gonna be alright,” Harry repeated to her, his voice almost inaudible had Y/N not been as close to him as she possibly could have been.

She pulls back to brush the stray curls from his forehead, where she pressed her lips gently to his temple as if he was so delicate that he might shatter if she used anymore force.

This time it was Y/N that saw his face surrounded by the multi-colored lights strung around the fir tree they’d picked from the farm just days before they thought their world was ending. He was beautiful, from the crown of his hair to the tips of his toes, inside and out, she thought. Maybe he didn’t feel like it at the moment, but Y/N made a promise to herself that she’d spend the rest of her life proving to him that he was.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles angst #harry styles writing #dad!harry #dad!harry styles #dad!harry x reader #dad!harry styles x reader

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tulsa-trash · 4 years ago

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The Sixth and Final Straw

Dallas x Sylvia Imagine

WARNING(S): Swearing, brief mentions of violence and s*xual content.

Sylvia stood outside the police station with her arms crossed, her lips pulled into a tight frown as she waited for her boyfriend to be released. Dallas Winston getting sent to the cooler wasn’t out of the ordinary, but it still didn't stop her from getting worked up every time. Sylvia had been counting, this was the sixth time he had been sent away while they were together.

She spent most nights up, crying her eyes out and screaming into her pillow. Always worrying if he was safe and not stabbed in a cell. Everyone constantly asking her ‘How’s Dally? How much time he get? What'd he do this time?’ While all the other girls with boyfriends were out having fun, Sylvia was always waiting for him to get out of jail or any other trouble he was in. Tonight was the last time, the final straw.

She was done.

Dallas came sauntering out of the front doors, a cop escorted him down the steps to the sidewalk where Sylvia stood. He sent her that signature devious smirk, but this time he was impressing nobody.

“Y'all have a good night.” The cop grumbled before making his way back into the station.

The pair stared each other down, not a word was spoken until the doors slammed closed indicating the pig was gone.

Dally sighed deeply, “What’s with the face?”

She stayed silent, jaw clenching as she did everything in her will power not to slap him right across the face.

“Oh gee, what did I do now?” He rolled his eyes, “Got any cancer sticks?”

“No.” She spat, “I don’t have any.”

Dal’s thick eyebrows pulled together as he looked down at her. He was annoyed, five months without seeing or even talking to his girl yet somehow she found a reason to be mad at him.

“What’s the matter, doll? You not happy to see me or sum?” He asked.

“Don’t you 'doll’ me, Dallas.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and chuckled dryly, that only fueled her anger. He found the situation humorous. How was it funny? She didn’t have a clue. But she did know he was one cocky son of a b*tch, and nothing with Dallas was ever easy.

“Syl, I really am not in the mood to fight with you right now. Especially when I just got out of jail five seconds ago.” He said with a bored tone.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Wha–”

“I said do you know what time it is?” She cut him off.

“No, Sylvia. What time is it?” Dallas’ voice became hard, his patience was running very thin.

“It is four in the mornin’. Four o’ clock in the mornin’, and what am I doin’ up this f*ckin’ early? Hm?”

He didn’t respond, instead he began to slowly walk down the sidewalk and away from the station. He knew a fight was coming and there was no avoiding it, and for the first time ever he didn’t want to get in trouble… again.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, hood.” She growled.

Sylvia quickly walked over and stopped in front of his path, there was no way he was escaping what was coming.

“Hood?” Dallas snickered, “That’s cute.”

“It is four in the mornin’.” She repeated. “I got up and walked over to the police station, by myself may I add, for the sixth time since I’ve been with you.”

Dallas shrugged, “So?”

“So?” She breathed out. “T-That’s normal? You think that’s fine? To go in and out of jail constantly while your girlfriend is worried sick about you?”

“Don’t start with me.”

He went to walk around her, but she slammed her hands on his chest and pushed him back.

Dallas shot her a deadly look, “I ain’t your punchin’ bag, kid.”

“Do you even care? Be honest with me Winston is there any tiny part of you that cares the slightest bit about me, and how I feel whenever you’re gone?”

Sylvia mentally cursed at herself as she heard her voice break. She didn’t plan for it to go this way, her breaking down in front of him. This time she wanted it to be different, she wanted to be strong.

“How you feel?” He scoffed. “From what I hear you’ve been havin’ a blast while I’m gone.”

“You can’t be serious right no–”

“You got some serious balls coming at me, making me feel like I did something wrong when you’re the one thats been f*ckin’ another guy while I’ve been away.”

She was completely and utterly gobsmacked, how in the world did he find out about that? She watched him with tearful eyes as he bent down so his face was level with hers.

“You should’ve know better… I got eyes and ears all over this town. Did you really think that wasn’t gonna get back to me?”

Dallas didn’t get answer, only a choked sob. She hastily wiped away the tears that were cascading down her cheeks, smearing her make-up in the process.

“Syl, I may not be the best boyfriend in the world…” He leaned in closer and brought his voice to a whisper, “But I never cheated on you.”

He straightened himself up and took a few steps back.

“Yeah, I’m a horrible f*ckin’ human being.” He admitted. “But guess what, baby? You’re just as sh*tty a person as me.”

With that he turned around and walked away, shoving his fists in his jacket pockets. He tried his very best to not belt out any obscenities towards the girl he once thought he knew. Sure, they fought like cats and dogs, but that never changed the fact that he was always loyal to her. He had actually trusted her, and that was one of the biggest mistakes he had ever made.

“I was done waitin’ for you!”

He halted in his tracks as her strangled voice cried out into the atmosphere.

“Dallas I love you, god damnit! But you’ll never love me!”

He shook his head, closing his eyes tightly trying to shut her out as he tried to leave again.

“You kept leavin’! You were always gone and it hurt me so ba–”

“So that means you had to go and f*ck Tim Shepard!?” Dallas roared.

The greaser girl visibly flinched as he whirled around to face her once more, pure disgust was evident in his features. She trembled while wrapping her arms around herself in a lame attempt to pull herself together.

“Dal… I am so sor–”

“F*ck your sorry!”

He stormed right back over to her, she whimpered and turned her head away to avoid his hateful gaze.

“How would you feel if I went and f*cked Angela, huh!? If I went and banged one of your friends how would that make you feel?” He seethed.

“You weren’t there…” She said quietly. “I couldn’t just sit around and wait for you to grow up.”

She reached behind her neck and unclasped Dally’s Christopher that he had given her when they first got together.

“That was silly of me, thinkin’ that maybe someday you’d end up lovin’ me. You don’t know how to love anythin’.”

“Like you do?” Dallas threw his hands up in the air. “'Cause having s*x with one of my friends is an odd way of showin’ it.”

Sylvia shook her head and sniffled, “You’ll never understand.”

She grabbed one of his hands and forced it open, dropping his necklace in his palm.

“Goodbye, Dal.”

#the outsiders #the outsiders fic #the outsiders imagine #the outsiders fandom #the outsiders dally #the outsiders sylvia #dallas winston #dally winston #dallas x sylvia #dallas winston imagine #dally imagine #dallas winston fic #matt dillon

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kevin-day-is-bi · 4 years ago

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For my dear @frenemies-to-lovers , who is my Knife Wife!! This did turn out on the long side, but I hope you like it!

It’s a Human Thing

Cardan was absolutely, completely, and totally in love with the girl in front of him. He was also not able to focus on how amazing she was because of how odd his human pants felt against his skin. Jeans, Jude had said, thrusting them into his arms. They, she had told him, were going to buy presents. And now they were in this store, this store that was bigger than the High King’s Palace in Elfhame, where everything was bright red. Jude had a list clutched in one hand and was pushing a shopping cart, as she had called it.

“Okay,” She said, turning the cart down an aisle. “We both need to think of something for Taryn. I am going to get her a new scarf. A human scarf.” She turned to me. “You need to get her something, too.”

Cardan frowned, staring at what they were walking past. He pulled one off the shelf and popped off the lid. It was a candle.

“It’s a scented candle.” He looked up at Jude. She was leaning on the cart and smiling slightly. “Sniff it.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, then sniffed the candle lightly. It smelled like vanilla. Cardan hummed and looked at the other candles on the shelf. He pulled another one off and smelled it. It’s light, jasmine. He held it out to Jude.

“Would Taryn like this?” She smelled it and nodded. He tossed it in the cart and they kept shopping.

This was going to be Jude and Taryn’s first Christmas since they were stolen. In Elfhame, they celebrated Solstice. They celebrated it much like they celebrated everything else, with drink and dancing until dawn. Cardan had been assured that they still had drinking and dancing for Christmas, but that there were a few important differences.

Vivienne and Heather were hosting a party Christmas Eve and Christmas day, and Jude had invited the original Court of Shadows to come. Somehow, three humans and six fae were going to fit into Heather’s incredibly small apartment. When Cardan had voiced his worry, Jude had given him a look.

Cardan received a lot of looks from Jude. There was a ‘you are being very annoying’ look, a ‘you need to stop drinking now’ look, a ‘you are making me very turned on in the middle of this important meeting’ look. Cardan felt he gained a new look at least once a week. This was a new one. He was pretty sure it meant ‘if you ruin this for me I will cut off your head with Nightfell’. So he had simply assured her they would easily find the space and changed the subject.

“Ok!” Jude said, tossing a soft-looking midnight blue scarf into the cart. “Ready to go? We still need to wrap them.”

…

“Explain the hat.”

“It’s a human thing.” Cardan raised his eyebrows, looking skeptical. Jude sighed and plunked the red-and-white hat down on his head. “There’s this story they tell kids, I don’t know where it came from, but this fat old man goes around the world Christmas night and delivers presents to all the kids who have been nice, and coal to all the kids who have been naughty.”

“Is he a fae?” Jude made a face.

“Not that we know of.”

“But he is magic?”

“Yep.”

Cardan tilted his head, soft black hair falling over one eye. Jude had her hair pulled back in a thick knot, and Cardan found himself wishing he could run his fingers through it.

Decorating was more fun than Cardan had thought it would be. There was a tree - not real, Vivienne had said with a scoff. Real ones were messy, - and several garlands of holly strung over windows and doors. Heather had pulled out several boxes of decorations from somewhere. Jude had held the plastic and glass ornaments in her hands every time before she hung them up, seemingly trying to comprehend their existence. Cardan was helping, although he wasn’t entirely sure he was doing it right. There didn’t seem to be much of a pattern, it was more of ‘hang things up where you want’.

Oak was also helping, though he was doing more talking than hanging. Cardan found himself fascinated by tales of mortal school; hearing a fae child talk about lunch lines and playing games felt like the whole world was slightly tilted.

“Oh, and in art class we made Christmas decorations! We cut out snowflakes and glued them to blank CDs and decorated them with Sharpies and gems. I brought mine home.”

Oak ran to the door and dug around in his backpack, pulling out the ornament. It was slightly misshapen, with very bright red and green scribbles on it. Cardan raised a brow, but Jude grabbed it and hung it up right in the front.

“I hope you aren’t ruining the tree,” Vivienne called from the kitchen. Cardan examined the tree. It had several empty spots and looked as though they had simply thrown the boxes at it.

“No,” He called back, and Oak snickered. Vivienne came in balancing a tray of mugs and began passing them out. It was hot chocolate with white floating things in it.

“What are these?” He asked. Heather, having followed Vivienne in, gasped.

“You’ve never had marshmallows?” She looked horrified, and distantly Cardan wondered if she was as horrified as him on the first night Jude had kissed him. He doubted it. Oak jumped up and down, sloshing his hot chocolate down his arms.

“They’re amazing! They’re fluffy and light and sweet and you have to try one.”

Cardan hesitantly took a sip, catching a marshmallow as he did it. After a moment of thoughtful chewing, he nodded.

“I believe I do enjoy marshmallows,” He said, trying to get another one with his next sip. Oak giggled.

When Cardan looked up, he noticed Jude giving him another look. He had seen this look before. ‘You are incredibly attractive right now and I am struggling not to throw myself at you with wild abandon’ was the general meaning of it. Cardan was not one to leave and let lie, so he smirked at her, showing just a flash of teeth. Her chin jutted out, challenge ripping through her eyes.

Cardan went for another sip, but someone knocked on the door. Vivienne went to get it, but when she opened the door she inhaled sharply.

“It’s a fae,” She said, voice quiet. Jude and Cardan looked at each other and walked over. It was indeed a small fae, short and furry with distressingly long teeth.

“My King,” The creature gasped, bowing. “My Queen.”

“Yes, what is it?” Cardan was annoyed. He had hoped not to be called upon, just for tonight and tomorrow.

“Your pardon, Majesties. I was told to bring this to you.” The fae held out a cream envelope with a shaking hand. The thick red seal on the back had already been broken, but Cardan could see it was Madoc’s.

Next to him, Jude drew in a sharp breath. Cardan unfolded the letter and scanned the few short lines of text. Wordlessly, he passed it to Jude. She gave him a quick look and read the letter. Cardan was carefully still, shoulders tight. Her head jerked up to look up at him.

To Their Majesties,

I will arrive at sundown. I am excited to see the girls and Oak. I am bringing presents.

…

“He’s coming?” Jude stared, wide-eyed, at Vivienne. Vivienne was leaning against the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Her own cat eyes went huge, and she pushed off the counter.

“He isn’t supposed to be.” Vivienne set her mug down and put her hands on her hips. “He certainly isn’t coming into this apartment.”

Next to her, Taryn pursed her lips and shifted. She fixed her attention on her own cup of coffee and took a sip.

“Taryn?” Cardan cocked his head slightly. “How do you feel about Madoc coming over?” She mumbled something into her coffee, not looking at any of them. Jude spun to her, eyes narrowed.

“What was that?” Taryn lowered her cup and reached a hand up to push her hair over her shoulder. She still wasn’t looking at them.

“I may have invited him.”

“What?” Vivienne and Jude spoke at once.

“Well, he raised us! This is his first Christmas and he’s in the mortal world and we haven’t payed him any heed and I wanted to be nice.” Jude stared at her, horrified. “It’s not like he can ruin the whole day. Even he doesn’t have that much power.”

“He almost took over all of Elfhame.” Jude grabbed Taryn’s shoulders, shaking her a little. “He ruined our childhoods and almost ruined both Cardan and I’s reign! Why would you think he can’t ruin Christmas?!”

Taryn looked taken aback. Cardan crossed his arms. She really should have thought this through.

“I thought-” Taryn bit her lip. “Maybe Oak would want to see him.” Everyone craned their necks to see into the living room where Oak was furiously typing on a laptop. Jude was the first to snap out of it.

“Maybe, but if they miss each other a half-hour visit in the park does just fine.” There was something in Jude’s voice, and Cardan turned to look at her. There was anger and annoyance, but Cardan could see in the tightness of her mouth eyes that she was worried, as well. Worried and scared and hurt.

Taryn kept stammering, but Cardan stopped paying her any attention. He watched Jude, watched the annoyance and anger crest, watched her eyes turn stormy. She turned and left in the middle of Taryn’s pleading to Vivienne, who was just watching with narrowed eyes. Taryn stared after Jude. Cardan followed, nodding slightly to Vivienne as he went.

Jude stormed to her bedroom and stood by the small window. Cardan shut the door quietly behind them and perched on the bed. He remained silent, waiting for her to speak. She broke after only a few short moments.

“I don’t want him here.” Her breath was coming short and fast as she crossed her arms. “I don’t care if it’s childish. This is my first Christmas since I was six, our first break since Eldred stepped down, the first time we are together and not being attacked, not fighting, not having to plan and plot and handle Orlagh or Nicasia or Locke. I wanted a time where I could be with Vivienne and not be mad at Taryn and see Oak smile.”

She broke off, tilting her head back slightly. When she spoke again, it was softer than before. “He has been a presence in my life forever. Even before I knew it, my life was ruled by him. I just wanted this nice human holiday without him.”

Her voice rose, and she lashed out a hand and punched the wall. The plaster cracked ever so slightly, and Jude grunted softly. Cardan rose and skirted the bed, going to stand by her. He took her hand gently. Her knuckles were red, and one of them had split open. He glanced up at her face.

To say she was angry was to say the sea around Elfhame was wet. True, as he couldn’t lie, but vastly underplaying. Cardan had never wished more that he could lie, just so he could hold her and tell her Madoc wouldn’t ruin anything. But Madoc was in the habit of ruining things. Jude sniffled. Cardan looked at her in surprise.

“I’m not going to cry,” She said sullenly. “Unless it’s out of anger.”

Cardan hummed and pulled her close. He tucked her head under his chin and rubbed her arms. Cardan had found out that when Jude was upset, physical touch grounded her. Otherwise, she got in her head and spiraled into anger. Cardan, having the opportunity to touch someone he loved for the first time in his life, was all too willing to comply.

“I can’t stay here,” Jude whispered. “Not with him, not in the same apartment. I don’t want to fight, and I know he’ll ruin it.” She sighed, shoulders hunching under his grip. “I suppose we can go back to Elfhame.” She didn’t sound thrilled. Cardan wished he could just snap his fingers and disappear Madoc.

“If we go back to Eflhame,” Cardan said, mumbling into Jude’s hair. “We could spend the night in my rooms. We need not deal with anyone else.” She pulled back and wrenched her head towards the window.

“I don’t have a choice. I simply cannot be in the same apartment as him.” Cardan straightened. Spending Christmas alone was not the worst idea, but it was for Jude. Cardan wondered…

“Come back to Elfhame, and I will try to distract you.” Jude flashed him a smile.

“You always do such a good job.”

…

Jude opened the carved door. Hair dripping down her back from her bath, she slipped into a blood-red doublet and thick green tights. She sighed, relishing the feeling of the velvet and wool against her skin. It felt like home.

She squeezed out her hair, then braided it back. Cardan had said he had to do something, then left her to bathe. The bath hadn’t been pleasant, all her anger and fury and worry over Madoc coming out in great heaving gasps. When she had dragged herself out, she had sworn not to think about him for the remainder of the night or for Christmas tomorrow.

Someone knocked on her door, and she rushed to open it. She blinked in surprise. It was Fand, out of her usual armour and in a black doublet. Fand bowed.

“Your Majesty. The King asked me to find you.”

Jude reached back inside the door and found her boots, the comfortable worn leather supple beneath her hands as she laced them up. Then she followed Fand, slightly confused. Fand did not lead her to the throne room, instead leading her to a small dining room attached to Cardan’s rooms.

When Fand nodded at her and opened the doors, Jude was taken aback. Inside, someone had put up a large pine tree, and it was covered in bright berries and soft glittering cloths. The whole room seemed to shimmer, and wreaths were flung over every chair and onto the mantlepiece. But what was more shocking were the fae inside.

Surrounding the table were Cardan, The Bomb, The Roach, The Ghost, and Grima Mog, all dressed in fineries. Fand slunk by her and joined them, cerulean skin standing out against the soft browns and greens. The Roach even had on a velvet Santa hat, though it looked odd on him.

Cardan stepped forward, holding two spun glass cups of wine. He handed one to her, taking a sip of the other. Jude shut her mouth, which had fallen open slightly, and gave him a grin.

“Merry Christmas,” He said, the words sounding odd in his mouth. Jude laughed, taking Cardan’s goblet and setting both of theirs aside. She flung herself at him, hugging him tightly enough he gasped for breath. The Bomb cheered loudly as Jude kissed him. She reveled in the softness of his mouth. He put his mouth to her ear and breathed. “I love you with all of my shabby, worm-eaten, and scabrous heart.”

“I love you, too,” She whispered back, laughing again and clutching him tighter.

Merry Christmas!!!

Thank you, @jurdannet and @jurdannetrevels, for hosting this!

#Jurdan #Jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #high queen of elfhame #christmas #christmas fluff #@frenemies-to-lovers #knife wife #secret snusband

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kurama-is-love · 4 years ago

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An unusual proposal (Oneshot)

It's been a while since I wrote in english, so please bear with me if this is not perfect. English is not my first language ;-;

Oh and this time it's a female Half!Demon/Human Reader x Kurama. Just to let you know! Again as warning, much much fluff between you and Kurama.

The Dark Tournament was looking forward to its grand finale.

Team Toguro faced Team Urameshi, consisting of Yusuke, Kuwabara, Hiei and Kurama. Their fifth member, Mask, or rather Genkai, was 'killed' in battle by the younger Toguro brother the night before. Although you and your friends mourned about your deceased comrade, the others were not allowed to give in to their feelings now. One single mistake could result in the next death, everyone knew that.

You hadn't left your friend's side since the beginning of the Tournament and you were even allowed to stay at their side near the battle field. Though now you were concerned about the last battle. You had asked to stand in for Mask as the fifth participant, but before you were able to speak to the competition officials, you were prevented from doing so by your friends, mostly Yusuke and especially Kurama. It was a lengthy and exhausting discussion that followed with the two of them. Yusuke was anything but calm and tried to dissuade you from your idea with irrelevant threats for "beating the shit out of you if you continue to try to participate". Of course he would never lay a finger on a friend, especially not if he were to draw the wrath of a certain fox on him ..

Speaking of the fox. It was Kurama's empathetic and factually convincing words that finally led you to abandon your idea and not take part in the fight. As much as you hated not being able to stand by your friends, it was clear to you aswell that you would not survive 2 minutes in the ring against a member of this diabolical team from Toguro .. It was just maddening ..

Before the fight started, you cleared your throat to attract the attention of your friends.

"Before you fight, I want to get rid of something .." you began and looked at the ground slightly.

"Spit it out, [Y/n]-chan." Kuwabara tried with a calm and understanding tone of voice to reassure you that none of them were mad at you for your earlier discussions. He thought that, because you were trembling all over and he could also tell that you were fighting back tears.

"I want you .. to be extra careful this time .. Your opponents are of a completely different caliber than all your opponents before .. And if ..Uh.. when you notice that you .. can't do it .. that you. . " you stopped, the thought of what should follow your sentence stung your heart. "... you will die if you keep going .. I beg you to give up .. just give up and end the fight .. Fuck this stupid tournament, your lives are way too precious ..!" you spoke a little louder and more determined as you looked at your four friends.

Hiei's expression was disinterested as always. Kuwabara looked away, slightly embarrassed, while Kurama had put on an illegible expression. Yusuke crossed his arms before briefly closing his eyes.

"Sorry, but we can't promise that." he said then.

"W-What ..?"

When you looked up, startled, you felt a hand on your shoulder. It was Yusuke's.

"If we give up, everything was in vain. Our training, the preliminary fights. And ... also the death of that old witch ... The least we owe her is to try to defeat her killer." He continued serious, but his face showed no sign of annoyance or anger towards you. He showed you .. friendliness and a small smile. "Anyway, thank you for taking care of us all. With that knowledge, we can do our best," he added.

"B-But .." your quiet objections were stopped again when Kurama took Yusuke's place and put both hands on your shoulders. A slightly worried smile graced his pale lips.

"Yusuke is right. If we give up here, everything we have been through so far will be wasted. Besides .." he continued and his expression darkened slightly as he looked at his opponents, especially at Karasu. "..we can't allow these .. monsters to continue their mischief to continue their murders in the world of spirits, demons and humans. If we don't stop them, who should do it?" he asked you.

You didn't know the answer and looked to the side. Kurama smiled sadly and put his hand on your cheek to turn your face back to him.

"Just trust us, okay?" He said softly and lovingly before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

"Kurama .. I trust you. But I'm still scared okay ..?"

"That's perfectly okay." The redhead whispered and you sighed softly.

"I'm serious. I don't want to go through the same fear that I did during your fight against Bakken ..."

"Mhm .."

[Flashback]

The battle against the members of Team Masho had reached worrying proportions after Kurama lost consciousness while standing shortly after he was named as the victor in the battle against the ice demon Touya by Koto. The rules of this match were like an endless battle. As long as a member could fight, he fought against any opponent. This is exactly how he had defeated Gama at first and was able to win against Touya with the last of his strength. But now the luck of the kitsune seemed to have run out when he stood bleeding and unconscious on the battlefield and Koto checked whether he was still alive.

"That's enough now! I'll take over for Kurama!" Yusuke called to the judge when the third opponent, a tall, dark-skinned man with short black hair, stepped out.

"Not so fast. That guy is still there, so I'm his opponent now." The shinobi grinned maliciously and was already flexing his fists.

"You can't be serious! You can see that he is not able to fight!" You said and looked angry at Bakken.

"You stay out of it, you brat. I say: He can fight." With these words he turned to Koto, who looked back and forth between the two parties, perplexed.

"Well .. Well .. I also think that Kurama is incapacitated. We have to wait for the decision of the competition committee before an exchange takes place .." the cat demon spoke uncertainly.

All attention was then turned to the speakers when the committee announced its decision. They disagreed with the exchange and declared Kurama's ability to fight.

Yusuke and you had to watch in shock when Bakken started hit the unconscious Kurama again and again and injured him so badly that it was a miracle if he could survive this ordeal for long. When Bakken pulled Kurama up by his top and beat him again, the fabric on the top tore and Kurama fell to the ground. Blood ran down his forehead.

While you could only watch in shock, the stadium echoed under the calls of the demonic audience, who very unanimously demanded only one thing.

"Kill him!"

"Kill him, Bakken!"

"Yes, kill this traitor !!!"

You clenched your fists in anger before turning to the bleachers.

"SHUT UP YOUR DAMN MOUTHS ALREADY!" you shouted so loudly that the stadium fell silent and Yusuke and the others looked at you too. "I CAN'T STAND YOUR HATE TIRADS ANYMORE! The next one who says anything about 'kill this bastard' will get a free ticket to hell from me. WAS THAT CLEAR?"

Your friends had seldom seen you so loud and serious. The girls, Botan, Shizuru, Keiko and Yukino were very shocked by your exclamation.

Suddenly one of the demons jumped down from the stands and stood next to you.

"Pretty loose mouth for such a shitty, weak half-breed, darling."the green-colored beast grinned and licked its lips with its iguana-like tongue. "You are nothing but a shabby one demon, who has human blood in them. It doesn't surprise me that you are on the traitors side. But don't open your mouth like that if you know what's good for you. " He threatened you.

Your eyebrow twitched menacingly as the demon extended its claws and tried to slit your stomach. You reached for your weapons, chakrams, and a reddish-orange aura flooded the metal, your Reiki, mixed with Yoki. The audience held their breath when they could only hear lightning-fast cuts and white clouds of energy sliced the demon that was attacking you until the attacker fell dead to the ground.

"Anyone else has something to say to a " failed half-breed "? you asked the ranks, but the audience fell silent before you could finally devote yourself to the fighting again.

"T-That's enough! Kurama is on the ground and can no longer fight! I think a countdown is also unnecessary .." Koto interrupted the scene now when she saw the battered Kurama.

Bakken seemed to disagree and lifted Kurama up in the air again by his top.

"Now he's standing again. That means the fight goes on."the black-haired man smirked and wanted to make the final punch that should blow out Kurama's life light forever.

"Stop. That's enough, Bakken." a masked figure behind Bakken, another member of Team Mascho, spoke up.

"Why are you stopping me, Risho? I was just about to finish it." Bakken grumbled while Risho pointed to the opposite side of the arena.

"If you had landed this punch, that would have been your death." Risho spoke only dryly, while Bakken blinked and looked in the direction in which Risho was pointing.

Yusuke and you stood there, both of you in your strongest attacking postures. Yusuke was ready to use his "Rei-Gun" while your chakrams had turned into icy-tessen (Metal fans), the tips of their spikes were reinforced with your Reiki and turned into razor-sharp blades that could be shot individually. You were both ready to kill Bakken if he made any move.

"Tch. Fine. Well, you can have him back." Bakken sighed and threw Kurama carelessly out of the ring. Yusuke and you immediately rushed to the passed out Kitsune and Yusuke carried him to the edge of the ring. You were right behind him. After Yusuke dropped him off, you kneeled down at Kurama's side and looked up your human best friend.

"Yusuke." You spoke in a serious tone. Yusuke turned to you. questioningly. "... Beat the shit out of him. Hit that asshole really hard with a greeting from me." You muttered with bared teeth. Yusuke grinned and gave you a thumbs-up.

"Rely on me, [Y/n]. I will make sure that he gets a proper rubdown. And greetings from you. Just take care of our Kurama." Yusuke answered with a wink.

You nodded gently and put your hands on Kurama's damaged chest to let your Reiki flow into his body. That should give him enough energy to activate his own self-healing powers. At least that was how it prevented him from having too little energy.

He almost died ..

When Kurama woke up a little later, he promised you to never again risk his life so lightly.

[End of flashback]

"Remember your promise." you said softly and took Kurama's hand in yours to give it an affectionate squeeze. The fox just looked at you apologetically, but he was weighing whether he could really tell you that he couldn't keep this promise.

"I'm sorry. This may be my first promise, which I can't keep, as much as I would like to. But ..." he began before you could sigh in frustration. Kurama smiled and put a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll give you a new promise for that." He said and made you blink in curiousity.

"One that you will keep?" you asked.

Kurama smiled and pulled you close for a moment.

"Yes. I promise you, if I survive my fight against Karasu .." he almost sounded as if he didn't believe in it himself, which only unsettled you even more. "... I will take you as my wife as soon as my human body is 18 years old."

Your eyes widened, speechless, at these words. Kurama, who had sworn off love and certainly did not want to settle down in the human world, had just given you the promise of marriage if he should emerge victorious from the battle ..

"K-Kurama .." you started, touched, when the Kitsune put his index and middle fingers on your lips and gently shook his head.

"I have to go into the ring now." He said, because the referee Juri had to call his name again.

Kurama broke away from you and went to the battlefield, where Karasu was already waiting for him. You held your breath as the fight began. It was going to be the hardest fight of all time for him, you were sure of it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The fight was clearly dominated by Karasu for a long time, who seemed to foresee every one of Kurama's steps. His rosewhip basically crumbled to dust before it could hit Karasu due to a miniature bomb that the black-haired man had already placed. Knowing that Kurama would resort to his signature attack.

Even the transformation into his Youko form only briefly gave Kurama the upper hand in this fight.

Karasu was strong, incredibly strong. Kurama was already bleeding profusely on his legs and arms from the bombs that hit his flesh. The transformation into his demon form had already reached its limits. Now everything seemed to be over for the redhead when he went down and his robe was already completely bathed in red blood.

It was a horrible sight, almost worse than Bakken's back then. Kurama stopped moving when Karasu tried to put an end to it.

With the very last of his strength, Kurama was able to mobilize his last reserves and thus also make his Reiki to zero when he conjured up a large, gray plant. Shortly afterwards he sagged dead and his friends, as well as you, cried out in agony.

"KURAMA!"

Karasu stopped. Not because he thought his opponent was dead, but because something had pierced his chest. Everyone stared in disbelief at the three vines of the plant that Kurama had conjured up with his last strength. They seemed to suck out Karasus blood.

"What is happening?" Kuwabara asked in disbelief.

"The plant sucks out its blood. Like a vampire." You explained and looked a little more composed again. Apparently you knew this technique. Since dated Kurama, the others weren't surprised.

Before the crowd could properly process what had happened, Karasu fell to the ground. His skin was pale from massive blood loss and his eyes were blank and torn. He was dead.

But what about Kurama?

Kurama opened his eyes. The bleeding wounds had closed again as if by a miracle and he straightened up slightly wobbly. Did the vampire plant fed him with the blood of his victim to save his life? It was the only logical explanation.

Tears now ran down your cheeks. No tears of sadness, tears of infinite joy. He was alive. Kurama had kept his promise and survived this fight.

Without hesitation for a second, after Juri made him the winner, you ran onto the battlefield and threw Kurama to the ground in a stormy embrace. The Redhead was unprepared for the impact and lost balance when you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

"Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot." You repeated several times, still sobbing slightly. This kitsune almost seemed to enjoy causing you so much grief by letting himself be beaten up in every fight.

Kurama smiled gently and caressed your back soothingly.

"Ssh. Everything is fine.", He whispered and heard only briefly loud sobs before you pulled away from him and stared at him.

"DO. THAT. NEVER. AGAIN." You warned and if Kurama wasn't grinning at you so sweetly, your anger would also come across convincingly. Instead, you just sighed softly and patted him gently on the shoulder. "But you also have to keep your promise," you added.

"Don't worry, I will." Kurama chuckled and turned to Yusuke with a hand sign. You blinked perplexed when Yusuke grinned and threw a small velvet box to him. Out of the corner of your eye you could see that it was a box with a beautifully decorated rose on the lid.

"Kurama .."

Kurama got on one knee and took your hand in his.

"I should do this formally and properly, don't you think?" He laughed and you suddenly realized something.

"... You already planned everything in advance, right ...?" You wanted to know.

Kurama gave a small laugh and kissed your palm lovingly before looking intensely into your eyes.

"Quite possible. No, but .. I've never met a woman like you in my life - and that applies to my human and demonic life - and I never expected to lose my heart to someone who makes me as happy as you. "

"Kurama .."

Kurama smirked when you didn't let him finish and cleared his throat to continue.

"Originally I wanted to stay in the human world because my mother and my friends were so close to my heart. But now there is another reason why I don't want to leave this world anymore. I want you by my side until the end of my days and ... start a family with you. In the human world. That is why I ask you, here and now, [First Name] [Last Name], do you want to be my wife and eternal mate? ", He asked and opened the box. Inside it was the most beautiful diamond ring you ever saw. Its sides were adorned with two beautiful jewels, a shiny [gem with your eye color] and a shimmering emerald. It was more than obvious that these jewels symbolized the eye colors of the both of you.

"Yes .. Yes, I want Kurama. Of course I want that!" You said overjoyed and let a smiling Kurama put the ring on your finger before he pulled you to him and kissed you passionately.

"U-Unbelievable! A marriage proposal during the final of the Dark Tournament! I've never seen anything like it!"Koto announced, she sat in the crowd as the second announcer and looked dreamily at the engaged couple.

You smiled and looked at the ring.

"So beautiful. But something's missing," you mumbled.

"Huh?", Kurama asked and you turned to him and grinned slightly.

"A topaz." You answered with a smile.

Now Kurama was the one whose eyes widened and he even blushed a little.

A topaz as golden as Youko Kurama's eyes. His demon form.

Now he was more certain than ever. He would never let you go again. He swore to himself.

#kurama x reader #kurama #youko kurama #youko kurama x reader #shuichi minamino #shuichi minamino x reader #yyh #Yu Yu Hakusho

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pigeonp0st · 4 years ago

Text

Kara Danvers x Reader #2 pt 2

Words: 1,285

Part 1:^

Warnings: none

Tag: @karazorxel

Notes:

I’m kinda disappointed in this so sorry if it doesn’t live up to expectations. Sorry for any and all spelling mistakes. (Don’t be afraid to request anything, this goes to everyone.)

“Kara,” you groan, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt of fighting off the cold, “this isn’t how I thought our forty-five minutes was going to be spent.”

“Yeah,” Kara agrees, digging her feet into the sand, “I was thinking about paris too but…”

“Wait,” you put a finger on her lips, shocked momentarily about how warm they are in the cold until you remember your girlfriend is an alien. Awesome. “How did you go from paris, to the beach outside your house?”

Kara smiles, pulling your finger away from her mouth and interlacing her fingers with yours, the warmth of her hand is a small relief against the cold. “I’m open minded,” Kara jokes, and then she’s gone, super speeding faster than your human eye to see, only to be back not a second later with a jacket in her hands. She helps you put it on and then drags you in for a hug to warm you up.

“Thank you, baby,” you sigh, perfectly content to spend your time together like this.

Kara doesn’t seem to agree though, because when you open your eyes again, after the expected gush of wind is over, you're standing in a hidden part of a market.

It’s a shock to be transferred from a secluded, quiet, beach, to a bustling outdoor market full of people, even this late. Kara’s beaming at you though, so you let her drag you from your hiding spot to a vendor with little complaint. Well, besides a mumbled, “warn me before you do that.”

The man Kara dragged you to seems to be selling ice cream. You let Kara choose a flavor for you while you glance around the market. Everybody seems to be selling their own things, some furniture, some sell vegetables, some sell flowers, or jewelry, or—or some people are performing. It’s really a sight to behold and not at all shocking for a homey town like Midvale.

“They open the market once every month for the whole day,” Kara mumbles from behind you, effectively bringing you out of your thoughts. “Clark told me he wanted to bring Lois today, since it’s our last day here.”

“This is a nice place to grow up...Midvale. The summers here must be fun,” You say, taking the offered cone from Kara and following besides her when she starts moving.

“They are,” Kara confirms, reminiscing, “can you imagine what it would have been like if we grew up together?”

You let out a snort, nodding. “You’d be getting me into a lot of trouble and my academic life would be struggling immensely.”

Kara glares at you playfully, “yeah, but you’d be having fun.”

A lot of fun, you’d imagine. Kara Danvers would have made life a lot easier back then, with her beaming smiles, and mischievous streak, but most importantly with her smartness. Good for homework. “I would be,” you concede. She smiles at you with chocolate ice cream around her lips.

Her smiles are very distracting, too distracting, that’s why you blame it solely on Kara Danvers when you bump into someone. To be fair, he wasn’t looking where he was going either since he was walking backwards.

“You okay?” You ask what looks to be a seven year old kid, steadying him with one hand so he doesn’t topple over.

His charcoal eyes snap to yours over his shoulder, and he simply shakes his head, eyes filling with tears. “I’m lost.”

Kara almost immediately hands you her ice cream and the napkin she used to wipe her mouth, before she crouches in front of the boy. “You don’t know where your parents are, kid?”

He shakes his head, looking down.

Kara tries again, “what’s your name?”

“Grey,” he answers, glancing up at you. You give him a smile.

“You’ve got a very cool name, Grey. Very intimidating.” You tell him, getting a small blush in response.

Kara sends you an amused look over her shoulder. “We’re in luck,” she tells you after a pause, “his parents are heading this way right now.”

Grey blinks at her curiously, “how do you know that?” He asks.

Kara gives him a wink, and tells him, to your disbelief, “superpowers.”

Kara really ought to be more careful, you think, but the look of astonishment that crosses Grey’s face makes you not care very much. He looks adorable, and you don’t really even mind that this emergency is biting into your forty-five minutes.

“Here,” you say, giving Kara her ice cream back, and giving Grey your melting one. You haven’t even started eating it yet. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

Grey shakes his head, grinning at you.

—-

Grey’s parents arrive ten minutes later. They’re very thankful towards you and Kara for looking after him, they even offered to purchase whatever you two needed to get at the market.

Kara objects though, and Grey gives you a big hug for the ice cream before he leaves, and to Kara he gives a high five for the comic book she brought him while they were waiting.

“The kid totally had a crush on you,” Kara tells you when you two are walking back home on the beach.

You raise an eyebrow at her, “why do you say that?”

“He blushed whenever you talked to him,” she huffs, swinging your joined hands. He did, and you noticed, you thought it was incredibly sweet, just as sweet that Kara got all smug when he did.

Kara’s never been too jealous with you, which was shocking since she acted very much like a puppy. The only times you can recall that she’s actually gotten jealous was when you bothered Kara to let you meet Lena Luthor, and then Cat Grant, all while she knew about your crush on them both.

“He reminded me of you, when we first met,” You admit teasingly. “Back when you still worshiped the ground I walked on.”

Kara laughs, shaking her head, “I still worship you, it’s just now i’m comfortable around you, and I know what you think of me.”

You smirk at her, tilting your head. “Yeah, Kara Zor-El? And what exactly do I think of you?”

Kara feigns thinking, eyebrows scrunched up adorably. “You think i’m strong, and cool, and that i’m your favorite hero,” she guesses lightly.

Your smirk softens into a smile. “You’re my only hero, Kara,” you tell her with no small amount of seriousness. “The only one i’ve ever really had.”

And it’s true, really, because Kara has always been there for you, more than everyone else. You don’t feel safe until you're with her anymore, and the only thing you can hope for is that Kara gets back half of what she’s given to you. Of what she continues to give to you.

“You’re my hero, too.” Kara whispers. It means more to you than she’ll ever know.

If Kara notices how emotional you’ve suddenly gotten she doesn’t say anything, just lets you have your moment to compose yourself. How is it that this woman always knows what you need, you think, how have you gotten so lucky?

“Thank you for coming with me on this trip,” Kara says some time later.

You nod fondly, and say, “thank you for inviting me.”

Another pause.

“Wanna race home?” Kara asks suddenly. You’re not one to say no to Kara very often so you agree only after you make her promise to not use her powers.

If you use Kara’s kindness to your advantage, and use a couple of bribes to win, who's going to know other than you two?

And if the two of you stumble into the house out of breath (you from running, Kara from laughing) only to steal Clark and Lois’s guest bedroom, they can’t really be mad.

#supergirl x reader #supergirl imagine #kara danvers imagine #kara danvers x reader #kara zor el imagine #kara zor el x reader #supergirl #imagine

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hotchley · 3 years ago

Note

Hey congrats on 500!!! Can I request 4 from fluff with Hotch x Hayley (romantically) please and thank you <3

Thank you! This was so much fun to do! It got a little dark for fluff, and there were a few references that I couldn't resist putting in, so I do apologise. It may read as bittersweet. Imagine canon never happens. Under 1.5k, unsure of the actual word count.

I wrote this in the car, I'm now on holiday, so the rest will probably have to wait and I probably won't be very active. I'll be back properly on Tuesday/Wednesday :)

If you're wondering where Haley's personality came from... it's me. Don't read into that please. (/hj)

4: "your hair is so soft!

Trigger Warnings: past child abuse, toxic mother in laws, toxic masculinity, discussions of sex (no actual sex), slight implications of pressure in regards to sex- generically, not between them

read on ao3!

Haley can't quite believe it.

She's married.

She's married to Aaron Hotchner. She's Haley Hotchner now. And she knows that names aren't everything, because she would still be herself regardless of her surname, and Aaron has proved that he loves her for what she is, not who she is, time and time again. But it's still a nice feeling.

To see her name written as Haley Hotchner. To whisper it to herself. She hopes that, in the highly unlikely- almost impossible- situation in which something goes horrifically wrong and they can't be together, that she will keep his name as a testament to the life they are going to build together.

As husband and wife. Because he's her husband now. And she's his wife.

It still hasn't sunk in. They did only get married a few hours ago, and they haven't even packed for the honeymoon yet, much to Jessica's horror, but they aren't leaving till the next weekend so they couldn't really pack. Not without running out of clothes. Although she's not sure how much she'd mind Aaron not being in clothes.

It'll probably hit when they move into their apartment. Theirs. It won't be their forever home. They can't afford that yet. Their apartment is going to be in Seattle, because that's where Aaron is going to be sent, and Haley likes the school so they don't need to consider other options (thank goodness.) Their forever home is going to be in Quantico. They already know the house.

It's the one they saw whenever they went back to their own homes during the holidays. The one filled with laughter and light and love. It's beautiful. And the couple that live there know them, because Aaron stopped to help them get their cat down from a tree. But that's all too far into the future. Because when they hopefully move there, it'll be with the thought of their own family. And for now, she just wants to enjoy being his.

Jessica thinks she's being silly, to pin this much on what is essentially a piece of paper that gives them tax benefits, but Haley, being the youngest, sees it differently. Her parents respect each other, but they don't love each other. Not in the way they're meant to. And Aaron's parents only ever served as an example of the depths of the human capacity for hatred.

Her and Aaron love each other. In a way that is kind and gentle and respectful. In a way that is peaceful. In a way that will carry on until they're both no longer here. They love each other in the way that both sends the world spinning and slows everything down. In a way that will break the cycles of their families.

They've had it easier than some, but harder than most. She only hopes it's not all for nothing.

The sound of the bathroom door opening pulls her from her thoughts. She had assumed that her and Aaron would go straight to her apartment after the reception- she doesn't have a roommate anymore- but his mother had surprised them with a room at the fancy hotel. She would never apologise for the way she had treated Haley when they first became serious, or the way she spoke to Aaron at times, but it was something. And for that, Haley was grateful.

"Well hello there, my handsome husband," she says, unable to fight the urge.

Aaron flushes, just as brightly as he had at seventeen, and she smiles. It's just as cute. "I- hi, wonderful wife."

He's showered and changed out of his suit, just like she'd changed out of her dress. She's glad he's simply wearing sweatpants and his law school hoodie, because after wearing a dress for several hours, she couldn't bear the thought of anything other than her cotton mismatched pajamas.

Aaron's staring at her with such love and adoration in his eyes that she almost can't handle it. It's a look he only gives her when they're alone, and she likes that. It's almost like their own secret language. She smiles and laughs a little when he looks down, almost like he too can't quite believe how far they've come.

"So are you going to keep hovering there like some sort of creepy serial killer, or are you going to come and join me?" She asks.

Aaron blinks, then perches on the edge of the bed. She huffs.

"Aaron, we shared a bed when we were seventeen. It's wasn't a mistake then, so it can hardly be wrong now we're married," she says.

"Right, yeah sorry, I just-" he stops talking, suddenly afraid he's said too much. He doesn't move.

Haley sits up and moves next to him. "Just what?"

"I don't want to have sex tonight," he blurts out. His cheeks immediately flush again.

"Oh thank god, I thought you were about to say you wanted to get an annulment." Haley's not joking.

"You're not mad?"

"Honey, why would I be mad?"

"Well, everyone at work always talks about how they had- you know- on the night of their wedding, and how it was so good, and I thought you might think I was a freak if I didn't want to."

She wraps her arms around him, realising a second too late she didn't ask. He relaxes into her touch, and she uses that as her unspoken cue to shift even closer.

"Well, everyone at work always talks about how the first time was not fantastic and often awkward, so clearly someone is lying. But in all seriousness, I would never think you're a freak for not wanting to. We have the rest of our lives to do that. And if you never want to, that's okay too. I love you."

He kisses her forehead. "Love you too. Mrs Hotchner."

"I just had a terrible thought. Your mother is Mrs Hotchner."

The look of horror on Aaron's face is almost comical. "Don't ever remind me of that again."

"I won't. Are you up for cuddling and whatever is on at this time, or did you just want to sleep?" She asks.

"Sure, maybe we'll find something half-decent."

The lie down as they always have, with his head on her shoulder and her legs thrown over his. It's a strange position, but it works for them. As they settle on an episode of something called Dharma and Greg- Haley makes a note of the title because she wants to tape it, but Aaron denies any suggestion that he looks like Greg- she starts to run her hands through his hair.

Almost immediately, she finds a knot. He has the decency to look down.

"I was going to do it."

"Mhm."

"Hay, I just really hate brushing my hair. It takes so long, and it's so inconvenient and-"

"Give me your brush."

Aaron knows better than to ask her how she knows he even has one with him, and silently brings it over. She pushes him to kneel in front of the bed, sitting behind him and gently combing through his hair, only applying more force when she comes across a particularly stubborn knot.

Nobody's ever treated him with such care before. Haley knows that nobody ever taught Aaron how to brush his hair in a way that would prevent knots, so she won't judge him. She'll just calmly guide him as best she can. That's all anyone can do.

He's falling asleep by the time she finishes.

"Your hair is so soft!" She exclaims, as she runs her hand through it again, this time not coming across a single knot.

"It's all thanks to you," Aaron says.

Haley ruffles it, and it falls onto his forehead. He pouts, but she grins because she loves when his hair falls onto his face like that. It makes him look younger. More like the man she loves than the fierce agent most people know or the excellent prosecutor a few people remember.

She kisses him, and he smiles against her like he always does. And then she pulls him into the bed, and they fall asleep in each other's arms, excited for the greatest adventure of their lives.

#hotchley's 500 #hotchley #tw past child abuse #cw sex discussion #tw toxic masculinity

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kettlequills · 3 years ago

Text

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

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crystalstar8 · 4 years ago

Text

Knights of the Night (ch 23)

Chapter 23

Ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9, ch 10, ch 11, ch 12, ch 13, ch 14, ch 15, ch 16, ch 17, ch 18, ch 19, ch 20, ch 21, ch 22, ch 23

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139240/chapters/71536491

pairing: Jungkook x oc

genre: vampire au, college au, twilight, romance

word count: 3,393

warnings: blood (obviously), kidnapping, child kidnapping, needles, France, human trafficking

notes: vampires, vampire au, college, college au, so many twilight references, blood, needles, kidnapping, children, homelessness, dance, ballet, flashbacks, romance, slow burn, probably no smut, idk yet tho, France, French things, attempted genocide, inaccurate French history, bisexual main character, @strawberriewithchocolate-blog @mozy-j @daechwitad-2 @zobadak @fallenstar-7

summary: Catalina starts college in a small town all the way across the country. She doesn’t know anyone and isn’t exactly looking for friends. She just wants to focus on dance. But when she meets fellow dance major, Jimin, and adventurous, fellow freshman, Jungkook, Catalina ends up discovering a whole new side to the small college town; one that is dangerous but oh so enticing...

The hallway was quiet outside Taehyung’s room, but she could hear voices downstairs. She couldn’t remember if she had her phone on her before she… well, before she died. But when she checked her pockets, it was right there, fully charged. She smiled.

Her smile dropped when she tried to open her phone and it didn’t recognize her face, refusing to unlock without the number code.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mumbled. “I don’t look that different.”

She had several missed calls and texts from her mom. It looked like her mom was keeping her eyes on the news and saw something about the raid at the abandoned hospital. She clearly panicked when she couldn’t get ahold of her. The last text told her to call when she woke up. She checked her calls. There was one outgoing call to her mom. One of the guys must have called her.

She sat down against the wall in the hallway and tapped her mom’s contact. The phone didn’t even ring twice before she picked up.

“Mi hija, is that you?” she answered, her voice frantic.

“Yeah mom, it’s me,” said Catalina. “I’m okay, sorry I worried you.”

“A young man named Hoseok called me and told me you were in the hospital?” Lucía asked. “I heard there was some sort of explosion downtown and you were nearby. I tried to fly over there but the city is in lockdown-“

“Mom, slow down,” Catalina said with a laugh. “I promise I’m okay. I’m back home with the boys and honestly, I feel great.”

“Were you unconscious all that time?” Lucía asked. “Did you have some kind of head injury? Those don’t just go away so easily.”

“Yeah, I was asleep for a while, but my head is perfectly fine,” said Catalina. “I just got my phone charged up, that’s why I wasn’t able to call you until now.”

She hated lying to her mom, but clearly the guys didn’t want her knowing the truth. Catalina knew that was for the best. They couldn’t just go around telling people about all this. She knew someday her mom would need to know, but now wasn’t the time.

“Okay, I’m so happy you’re okay,” Lucía said. “Please call every day until your poor mom is satisfied.”

Catalina laughed and said, “Sure mom. I can do that.”

“The boys are taking care of you, right?” Lucía asked. “Is Jungkook there?”

“Yeah, they’re taking good care of me,” said Catalina, her heart skipping a beat at the mention of her boyfriend. “Jungkook is here, he’s downstairs. I have to go now mom. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”

“Okay, cariña,” said Lucía. “I’ll let you go. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, mom,” said Catalina. She hung up and looked down at her phone. She wondered how she’d be able to tell her mom about everything that happened. About what she was now.

She sent a text to Hoseok, telling him to meet her by Taehyung’s room. He sent her back a thumbs up emoji and was there within a minute. Catalina stood up and looked at him. He didn’t look all that different. She wondered how badly he was hurt. But first…

She pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” she said. “For saving me.”

“I did it without your consent,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “I thought you would hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said, pulling away to wipe away his gathering tears. “I wasn’t ready to go. I’m glad you did what you did.”

He hugged her again, then Catalina said, “I heard you were hurt at the fight.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Hoseok. “Tae tae likes to exaggerate.”

Catalina laughed.

“I can’t wait to hear the whole story,” she said. “But first, I wanna see my boyfriend. I was told I needed a chaperone.”

Hoseok smiled and said, “I’ll be your chaperone! You look okay right now, but seriously, be careful getting close to him.”

“I feel fine,” said Catalina. “I think I should be okay.”

“Trust me, you will not feel that way when you get close to him,” said Hoseok, his face getting serious. “I remember what it was like to be new. It’s like, you can’t always control yourself. If you get really close to him, he’s gonna smell irresistible. Literally. It’s going to be really hard not to just bite into his pulse-“

“That sounds sexy,” said Catalina.

“It’s not,” said Hoseok. “You won’t be able to stop. Not when you’re this new. You could literally kill him in less than a minute.”

“Yeah, that’s not sexy,” said Catalina.

“I would suggest being…chaste for a while,” said Hoseok. “At least until you’re well fed for a few weeks.”

“Weeks? In Twilight, it takes years,” said Catalina.

“This is not Twilight,” Hoseok said, laughing. “The only vampires that sparkle like that are the ones at San Francisco pride.”

Catalina laughed loudly at that, following him towards the stairs.

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

Jungkook leapt from the couch as soon as Catalina came into the room. Namjoon, who was sitting next to him, was faster in pulling him back.

“Guk,” Catalina said, itching to finally hold him. He was staring at her with wide eyes, taking in her face and hair and body.

“Cat,” he whispered, slowly approaching. Namjoon and Hoseok watched them carefully as they met in the middle, enveloping each other in a tight hug. Too tight, if the pop Catalina felt in his back and the groan he let out was anything to go by. She quickly loosened her grip, adjusting herself so her face was buried in his chest instead of his neck. Hoseok was right. He did smell irresistible. His heartbeat and pulse were loud in her ears and the smell coming off of him was making her thirsty again. Before she knew it, she was no longer focusing on him. It would be so easy to just lean up and take…it’s right there…

Her thirst came back full force and it took everything in her to push him away before she lost control.

She ignored the hurt that flashed in his eyes as she turned her back to him, looking at Hoseok with desperation. He pulled something from his back pocket and handed it to her. It was another blood bag. Her hands shook as she drank it, unsettled by the thoughts running through her head. She hated thinking about Jungkook like that.

Catalina felt tears well up in her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry Kookie. You just…you smell really good.”

“Thanks?” he said. She turned to look at him with a smile.

“By that I mean, I couldn’t stop thinking about biting into your neck and taking from you,” she said, feeling guilty.

“That sounds sexy,” he said with a smirk.

“It’s not. I wouldn’t be able to stop,” said Catalina. Behind her, she heard Hoseok chuckle and say under his breath, “No wonder they get along so well.”

“Well, maybe when you think you could stop, we can test it out,” said Jungkook.

“We’re still here,” Namjoon said, clearing his throat.

“No, let them keep going, this is fascinating,” Hoseok said.

“Okay, I promise I won’t do anything crazy, I just really want to sit down and hold my boyfriend’s hand and listen to everyone’s war stories,” said Catalina. “And maybe drink some more.”

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

“Taehyung was a beast,” Hoseok said.

Jin and Jimmy K were given the notice that it was safe to come over, so they did right away. Once everyone was settled into the couch in the lounge, they were all eager to share their stories. Catalina and Jimin were both sipping their way through a pile of blood bags on the coffee table, listening intently with wide eyes. Jungkook sat beside Catalina, an arm around her waist, sparkling eyes never leaving her.

“Yeah, Taehyung was legendary,” said Jimmy K.

Taehyung, who was sitting beside Jimin, blushed and waved a hand.

“I’d say Jimmy K was more legendary,” said Taehyung. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

“Well, let’s start at the beginning,” said Catalina. “I don’t even know how they got Jimin!”

“They kidnapped me again,” said Jimin. “The day before the battle.”

“Jimin, I’m so sorry,” said Catalina. “If we had known…”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Better me than Caleb. I’m glad Makai assumed we didn’t know him.”

“It’s true,” said Namjoon. “If it were Caleb, we wouldn’t have been able to save him the way we did with you. Turning children is illegal.”

“Illegal?” Jungkook asked. “Would you get arrested? By the police?”

“That’s a question for another time,” Catalina said impatiently. “So, what happened? Tell us from the beginning, from when you all went in.”

“Well, it was pretty boring when we first got in,” said Namjoon.

“Let me tell it,” said Hoseok. “You guys are bad at telling stories. Okay, so we went in and our backup is all there, and right away, we’re demanding to speak with Makai. There’s this lady there, was her name Mohati?”

Namjoon nodded.

“Right. Mohati tells us that Makai isn’t there, but Yoongi knows she’s lying,” said Hoseok. “And he says so, and then one of our guys tries to attack her and that’s when the fight started. A bunch of guys came out of nowhere and attacked us and it was just madness. Yoongi had his sword-“

“It was my original sword,” Yoongi said with a grin. “From when I was a prince. I haven’t touched it in a good three hundred years, but it cleaned up pretty well.”

“And he was cutting peoples heads off,” said Hoseok. “Which was gross and terrible to watch, but it was so awesome. He was like a master fighter. I got separated from them for a while, because I found someone I knew in the crowd. It was Jamie, the woman who kidnapped me back in the nineties. She recognized me and started taunting me and I couldn’t even focus on anything else at that point. My anger totally took over, but she was pretty strong. I didn’t last long in that battle. She hurt me pretty bad, I couldn’t fight after that.”

“She broke his leg,” said Yoongi.

Hoseok’s face looked pale. “You don’t have to tell them. It’s really gross.”

“His bone was sticking out,” Yoongi said, chuckling. “It was magnificent.”

Hoseok put his face in his hands and groaned. “Don’t make me think about it again. It was so awful. I’m gonna throw up.”

Yoongi laughed and patted his back. “I helped set it. He did throw up.”

Hoseok punched him in the arm.

“He got her back though,” said Yoongi. “Once you could stand up, you killed her, didn’t you?”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Hoseok said, standing up. Yoongi pulled him back down and rubbed his back.

“Namjoon, tell us what you were doing,” said Yoongi.

“I tried to control the crowd, but eventually I had to fight,” said Namjoon. “I mean, I held my own, but nothing crazy happened.”

“Didn’t you blow up the wall?” asked Yoongi.

“No, I didn’t blow up the wall,” Namjoon laughed. “Beck, one of the guys from up north, brought explosives. He was setting them up all over the place. I think he just wanted to come to blow stuff up. But I heard Jimmy K was pretty badass during the battle.”

Jimmy K chuckled and said, “I was just doing my job.”

“I saw Jimmy K swing over the crowd on a chain, shooting a crossbow,” said Taehyung.

“I saw Jimmy K with a machete, fighting back-to-back with Yoongi,” said Namjoon.

“I saw Jimmy K karate chop someone in the neck and they passed out,” said Hoseok. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I saw Jimmy K run up a wall and do a backflip kick to one guy’s chest,” said Yoongi.

“Was that before my shirt was ripped open, or after?” Jimmy K asked.

“After,” said Yoongi. “You had a big gash across your chest.”

“That was from someone’s nails,” said Jimmy K. “Can you believe that? They ruined my shirt. I might have a scar there!”

“But what a great story it’ll come with!” said Jin.

“That’s true,” said Jimmy K. “Women love scars. And they love the stories.”

“What happened to you when you went missing?” Jungkook asked Catalina.

“I was with Priya and we were going back in to evacuate more captives,” said Catalina. “Amanda came out of nowhere and Priya tried to defend me but she didn’t stand a chance. Amanda pounced on her and snapped her neck. I ran away, but I got lost. Amanda was following me, but I think she was just playing with me. She let me run until I couldn’t breathe anymore, and then she came out and grabbed me. She brought me to Makai’s office. Jimin was there. I don’t think Makai was expecting this attack.”

“Really?” asked Namjoon. “Because there were way more enemies there than we expected.”

“No, he told us that he knew we knew Jimin. He realized Jimin was part of our group when Yoongi went there to buy him, but he didn’t pay any mind to it,” said Catalina. “He basically said, he got paid either way. He didn’t think we’d do something like this.”

“He said he wanted to try to make a deal with you,” Jimin said to Namjoon.

“He tried to,” said Namjoon. “He wanted me to call this off and let him continue his business. He’d spare you if we did. I couldn’t let him continue his work, so I tried to reason with him to let you go, but then some idiot wanted to be a hero and tried to attack Makai. Obviously Mohati jumped in and killed him right away, but it was too late. Makai and Amanda panicked and took it as an attack.”

“That’s when Taehyung went crazy,” said Hoseok. “He was legendary.

“A beast,” said Jimmy K. “Absolutely fearsome.”

“He was truly a formidable force,” said Namjoon.

“Guys,” Taehyung whined, blushing and looking down.

“His eyes were practically glowing when he attacked Makai,” said Jimmy K. “And Makai is a big man, way bigger than Taehyung, so I was sure he’d win. Not to mention, Amanda was also a part of his attack. But Taehyung let out a piercing battle cry and tackled Makai to the ground. He fought both of them like nothing I’ve ever seen before. He was like a wild animal.”

“He was faster and stronger than I’ve ever seen him,” said Namjoon. “He killed Amanda right away and then tore Makai apart.”

“Literally,” said Yoongi. “He literally tore the man limb from limb.”

“Ew, please stop,” said Hoseok, looking pale again.

“He didn’t waste any time biting you, Jimin,” said Jimmy K. Jimin looked at Taehyung, whose eyes were downcast. Jimin took his hand and rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. Catalina had to assume Jimin wasn’t too mad about being turned.

“They formed a circle around us,” said Jungkook. He looked pale too as he told Catalina the next part. “Hoseok tried to hold your wound closed, but it wasn’t working. He said he was sorry before biting you.”

“Once Makai was dead, most of his people started running away,” said Namjoon. “The battle ended quickly and then the police came down to sweep for any other survivors. We didn’t stay though. We had to get you two home.”

Catalina stayed silent for a moment to take everything in. She couldn’t believe everything that happened, just within…

“How long was I out?” she asked.

“Just a day and a half,” said Namjoon.

“Shit. No wonder my mom was panicking,” said Catalina.

There was something else weighing on her mind. Something she wasn’t sure they’d have the answers for.

“So, something strange has been happening with me, and I think I understand what it is, but I don’t know how it’s possible,” said Catalina. Everyone was listening intently. “About a week or so after I moved here, I started having these dreams. They would always start out chaotic, mostly me running from something. Then they would end in a library or den and Namjoon would be there, telling me about the book he read last.”

Various faces of confusion stared back at her.

“The weird part is, we hadn’t met any of you yet,” said Catalina. “I met Namjoon in my dreams before I met him in real life. But it didn’t stop there. The night after our bonfire at Jungkook’s house, I had a dream that I was being chased in a tunnel with a metal floor. And the person chasing me said something like, ‘Don’t you know girls like you get eaten…’, or, what was it? Like, ‘Here kitty kitty, don’t you know trespassers get eaten?’. And these dreams kept happening, the same one over and over again, me being chased in this tunnel and the person chasing me kept saying something similar to that, a little different each time. And then, the night before the battle, I had a dream that me and Jimin were being held captive and I woke up when our necks were slit.

“When Amanda was chasing me the day of the battle, I was running through the same tunnel as the one in my dreams. But I didn’t think about it too much because she was following me and taunting me and she said those words. She said, ‘Here, kitty kitty. If you keep running, you’ll run into monsters down here. And pretty kitties like you will get eaten by the monsters’, something like that. And I realized that this was the moment I had been dreaming about all along. And I knew what happened next but I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

Catalina felt a tear run down her face, which she wiped away quickly. She didn’t want to cry, she wanted to be mad. But there was no point in being mad at a dead woman. She supposed there was also no point in being mad at a situation that was meant to be anyway.

“Fascinating,” Namjoon said after a long pause. “You’re a prophet.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in stuff like that,” said Yoongi.

“I don’t, I mean I didn’t,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter what I believe in. If she’s telling the truth, which she has no reason not to, then that’s proof. That implies that destiny is real, and we don’t truly have free will.”

Namjoon rubbed his chin and looked off into space before continuing.

“But not entirely,” said Namjoon. “If your dreams were a little bit different each time, that means that the future isn’t completely set in stone. It might still be possible to change it, especially if you know what to expect. It might be difficult though, since it sounded like all your dreams had about the same outcome.”

“No, not all of them,” said Catalina. “Some of them ended with me finding you all and you protecting me from whatever was chasing me. One of them ended with Jungkook getting injured. He was unconscious and both of us were locked in one of those cells.”

“So, it sounds like the future is changeable,” said Yoongi. “I bet your dreams were shifting every time someone made a decision.”

“This isn’t unheard of, Catalina,” Namjoon said. “Lots of vampires have some sort of special ability. Usually it’s just things like hypnotism, or having an affinity for certain skills, but this could be very useful. And very interesting. The philosophical implications of this are well worth looking into.”

“I don’t like it,” said Catalina.

“You better get used to it,” said Yoongi. “There’s a lot of things about this life you won’t like.”

“Well, vampires don’t need to sleep, right?” Jimin said. “If you don’t like it, just don’t sleep.”

“Oh, that’s true,” said Hoseok.

It was then that she remembered the last dream she had. The one on the beach. If that one came true, like the others did, then maybe this gift of hers wouldn’t be so bad.

“What are you smiling about?” Jungkook asked.

“The last dream I had, before I woke up today,” she said, her smile growing wider. “I hope it comes true.”

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