#how many scars from their hands and blade does he bear as a mark of pride

[veilkeeper]

how much time did gortash spend taming the dark urge and teaching them they could be loved, that they could be more, only for them to end up in the arms of another

[searchingforserendipity25]

Trials By Fire (After).

Maglor afire post-Bragollach, for @maedhrosmaglorweek. Also on AO3.

Part 2 of this installment, with no need to read it first.

-

It does not seem possible that Maglor may survive the year.

So Maedhros wrote to the king - his new king, Fingon, along with his vows of fealty and the full promise to avenge Fingolfin, written and sealed in his own blood.

Maglor nearly followed his half-uncle. His flesh burned with a terrible fever. The whites of his eyes were fully red with smoke; he kept weeping, not with grief, but the poisonous grit that had become the fertile plains of the East.

He had refused to wash the last of the ash that had been his land; and barely permitted the healers to attend to him. He nearly went back to the Gap - would have gone without warning, if Maedhros had allowed it.

"Let go, release me," Maglor demanded.

Maedhros stood before him, between the landing and the gate. He had risen with a cold clarity of premonition, the sudden certainty - One whom you love is to die.

His voice broke and broke, until blood shone on his teeth. The power in it was a monstruous thing, filling the tall, tall stone halls of Himring.

He had been out of the healer's room and nearly down the staircases, enough beastly might in the ugly scrap of his throat to make ruthless warriors turn into peons, opening doors and gates for his passed.

Maedhros wielded in his hand his sheathed sword, the one he slept with like a lover beside him.

Release me, Maglor ordered with the fury of his mind, all his spirit warring against Maedhros; outraged, and betrayed truly to be held hostage.

Maedhros expelled his followers from the room - an effort of will, his dominion fighting against his brother's, and their own awareness flickering at the corner of his mind with animal terror.

And then he raised his blade from its sheath, without hesitation.

Maglor's best weapon had even been his voice - he had meant to make his way back to the Gap unaccompanied, none of his riders were about him.

He had ridden into safety for them, the lives bound to die with him if he had stood fast; he fled, now, as a thief in the night, dying of his wounds, alone, so that they might outlast him.

Maglor in his clear mind would not do such a thing. Maglor, Maglor as himself, took loyalty too solemnly; he would have given them the choice to follow him to the last, if he had been thinking clearly, and not wild with anguish. That was when Maedhros knew for certain what he must do.

Maedhros had his warriors close all the doors and all the windows, and leave them to their reckoning.

Maglor's face looked at him, repelled more than afraid at finding himself trapped. The worst of it was the bubbling foam at the corners of his mouth as he laughed, incredulous. Maedhros, he called. Nelyo, so you too are my enemy?

How could you allow this - how could you permit it! The East was yours to keep - look at what your keeping has made of us, O Lord of Himring! 

Maedhros ignored his insults, his threats, his bragging and begging. He loved him too well not to press him back, back, back, down staircases and corridors.

Maedhros had to lift him up - bearing against his teeth and clawing fingers, pressing him down on the cold springs at the secret base of Himring's thermal baths. Maglor only went limp at last when Maedhros dunked and dipped and half-drowned him back to sense, when at last the terrible blood-fever in his receded.

It took many days, for that. A fortnight and more; and the harm of that time never lifted from him, and left its deep marks.

And years of silence. The healers did what they could, sang the open sore that was his mouth whole; it broke apart, again, again.

He coughed blood at night, stained scraps of cloth scarlet - Maedhros remembered the sail-cloths of Alqualondë, red on white, whenever he saw him wiping his mouth. 

White scars engraved his cheek, from the broken length of his spread as it broke in many parts a gnashing dragon's teeth; and he did not speak for years.

Maedhros knew too well this despair, and loved him too much. He kept his closed away, at first. A high tower, the highest, with not even an arrow-slit to escape from.

Maglor's voice, closed like a fist in his throat; Maglor's face terrible and worse than terrible, the flaring of him as he paced the battlements, when he was permitted to walk, under Maedhros's own guard.

He sought always to see if someone was riding towards Himring, or away from it. Few of his riders had survived the great conflagration; few survived their flight. They went off into the wilds to ride against bands of orcs, or the rumours of Balrods or wyrms, as King Fingolfin had.

They meant to die, as King Fingolfin had.

Maedhros took to sharing his brother's cot, arms holding close his trembling limbs, lest he rise again in the dark before dawn and make for the stables, the scorched plains, the long homeward path back to what remained of the Gap.

Maglor wished it. Maglor wanted it with such a burning desire it left Maedhros breathless, painted the mirage of leaping dragon-fire behind his lids.

He went quiet and cold, that winter, once the fire left his veins - too cold, coals turning to cinders. He shook with chills, until he was wan and exhausted, and then longer still, and made no sound, gave up on the making of sounds.

He looked at Maedhros with a face empty, one eye blind - but it was the loss of his voice that defeated him. That, and Maedhros's unrelenting determination to make him live.

Let me go, release me, he had howled, until he could not any longer. His voice overlaid itself over memories of Angband, when Maedhros slept. The chains of Thangorodrim, and Maglor riding barely in front of a wave of fire, Maglor behind the thick steel-and-stone of Himring's highest tower, sweating through his fever and his fury.

The look on his face, when Maedhros raised him up from the water. At times he woke with the bones of his arms reverberating with the force of pressing him down, certain as he woke that he had done it - drowned him dead. He had to turn and check, make certain he was not in bed with a corpse bloated blue and black.

It did not seem possible that Maglor may survive the year. Maedhros was a mad fool set on accomplishing the impossible - in this one instance, at least, he earned a bitter victory.

Fingon, he suspected, envied it terribly - his dearest person, saved from the aftermath of Morgoth's flames. Maglor, Maedhros knew for certain, did not forgive him. He had not wished to live.

("Let me go," he had screamed, with the last of his beautiful voice wrecked to disharmony. "Do you not know it was always meant to end in this? Let me at the flames, Nelyo, it is my land, mine, no good shall follow if I do not die in it. I know this, if you bear me in your heart with any love at all you must release me -"

He kept fighting for the words, even when he could not speak, choking on them. Maedhros dreamed of that, too).

"Not this year yet," he cautioned, when at last he judged his brother well enough to be able to leave the tower, and give him the freedom to pay his due respect to the king. "Call your standards, your vassals and all the forces at their disposal, and all shall answer in full faith. But wait only one year more; the time is not yet come."

Maglor's voice should be fully his own again, by then. The healers agreed; and Maedhros knew it.

He dueled in the grounds, and fought anyone who dared to try him. His body, forged anew from a terrible crucible, healed its shattered ribs, its splintered femur, the cracks in his skull, the fine, fine fractures in his long fingers. He trained as the healers dictated, drank the bitter tinctures, ate well, worked a sweat of pain for hours as he strengthened his body again, and readied himself for the harp again with plucking loose strings.

Even Maedhros lost against him when they crossed blades, not once, but time and time again. It was a sight of beauty and dread, watching the two lords of the fortress spar. 

Down on the training grounds, hands and knees in the dirt, looking up at his brother standing taller than him, for once - taller, fiercer, the whites of his eyes alight - Maedhros was very aware of the picture they painted, and the road he meant to take to keep that fire kindled.

For Maedhros had been brought to life himself with his brother's insistence, by the shores of Mithrim, knew to be patient. Ruthless, and patient, for the times when their blades crossed, and Maglor's face shone with a new passion, a flare of mirth.

It made no difference that Maglor grew dire, afterwards, and evaded all company, and would not look at him. Maedhros might lose the duel, but those brief smiles were his prize, and those he stole more and more often.

Maglor was nearly whole. Kept court once more with his own warriors, and kept some from their fateful rides, and blessed the ones who took their leave in honour.

Slowly, with his customary discipline, he learned his voice-box anew; carefully, inevitably. The face he turned always eastwards looked at Maedhros without resentment, now.

When he won, Maglor held out his hand to help him rise. Maedhros started to wait, to hope almost.

And when at last, at last, Maglor pressed close in his arms, weeping trails of salt against his neck, that was when Maedhros knew it was time to go to war; for together had never been as strong, or more certain to succeed.

[downstarr]

The Consort (complete)

The Consort (11364 words) by downstar Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins, Balin (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Thorin Oakenshield Lives, Domestic Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Established Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield Fluff, Consort Bilbo Baggins, POV Bilbo Baggins, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Misunderstandings, Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Dwarf/Hobbit Relationship(s), Dwarf Gender Concepts, Dwarf Courting, Domestic Fluff, Non-Graphic Smut, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Cultural Differences, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Boyfriends, Gentleness Series: Part 2 of The Quiet Moments - Bilbo and Thorin Summary: After a confession of their feelings, Bilbo returns to Erebor with Thorin. The great city is in the process of rebuilding, and Thorin is settling into his role as his king. Word is getting around that their king has asked an outsider - a hobbit! - to be his consort. Can their burgeoning relationship survive the pressures of kingship and cultural misunderstandings? --- This fic carries on in continuity from my one-shot The King and the Hobbit. It's part of a series of one-shots or short pieces that exist within the same continuity and in the same timeline. Check the previous fic in this collection for the story of how the two of them got together.

Excerpt:

One evening, a few weeks into his stay in Erebor, Bilbo sat hunched over a heavy metal desk, perched high on a pair of cushions, his hairy feet dangling off the edge of the chair. He’d been hard at work for hours, drafting what would one day become the first chapter of their fated quest. 

Thorin approached him from behind and set his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m going to sleep. Join me when you’re ready. Don’t hurry on my account. Your candlelight does not bother me.” 

“Mhmm, be there soon,” replied Bilbo, his brow furrowed in concentration as he mouthed the words of the sentence he was trying to get just right. “Ah, Thorin, Thorin…” he looked up suddenly and swiveled around.

Thorin had just finished ducking out of his embroidered tunic. The flickering light of the roaring hearth set into the wall and the dim glow of the sunstones huddled up against Bilbo’s plants tossed flattering shadows across the thick muscle of his back. It also highlighted the pure white scar tissue rimmed in silver where Azog’s blade had sliced him through. Elvish medicine had saved his life, but he would always bear the mark of his nemesis and feel the wound echoed in the movement of his body. 

Thorin looked over his shoulder and lifted a brow when Bilbo called his name. “Mhmm?”

Bilbo found himself staring. He still wasn’t used to seeing the dwarven king in a state of undress, especially in so casual and intimate a moment. A physique such as Thorin’s was unknown among hobbits, which went some of the way towards explaining why Bilbo had never found a lover among his own kind. There was much more there, of course, but the physical nature of his attraction had caught him off-guard more than once since he’d found the courage to acknowledge it. 

Thorin noticed Bilbo’s wandering gaze and turned around. He made a bit of a cheeky show of leaning up against the wall next to the hearth, as if aware that the firelight did much to flatter his body. 

Bilbo swallowed, twitched his nose and tap-tapped his pen against a spare bit of paper he used to blot the ink. “Do you…” he cleared his throat, “...do you think there’s someone who could teach me Khuzdul? I should like to add some dwarvish script to my book. I’ve also heard that Smaug left the archive virtually untouched and there are many wonderful and ancient tomes that are still in good condition. But I can’t read any of them. And that…” he rapped his pen again, “... is a speeeeecial kind of torture.”

Thorin was a stoic man, capable of very subtle expressions. But the delight at hearing Bilbo’s request was immediate and obvious. He smiled, his eyes lighting up as warm as hearthfire. He crossed the great chamber to Bilbo’s side and reached out to cup his cheek. “I will send for a scholar from the Iron Hills to be your tutor. You will have the advantage of learning under a master of languages.” 

“That’s really not necessary. I can muddle along with some references and a helper. I don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble,” Bilbo replied. He felt the tips of his ears burn red, and he was suddenly grateful for the mess of his hair and the low shimmer of light. 

[phantomwarrior12]

Forgotten Wounds

It's a rare thing to have a wound the Light cannot mend - to rise from the tingling whirlwind of a rez and still see a mar along one's form.

There are scars Guardians choose to bear as reminders…and there are these. Wounds bound so firmly in trauma, they linger because the body decides it should. That guilt, that agony? Carved into their skin for all eternity.

Lord Shaxx does not bear many like that.

But in the cool glass before him, there is a mark; a jagged, angular, oddly clean divet along his left pectoral just over his heart that has lingered through countless revives. His fingertips trace reverently along the edges, as if the gesture itself will spark a memory. But even as he trails over that distinct softness that all new scars bear, he realizes nothing comes to mind. He feels he should remember its source vividly - surely it was important?

It was his heart after all.

Perhaps a failure during the Dark Ages? The death of what he'd called a friend? Perhaps at Twilight Gap? They lost a great many Guardians then. But the placement feels wrong.

When had he been wounded through the chest?

"Shaxx?"

The Warlord draws his focus from the reflection in the mirror, recalling exactly where he is and who enters their room a moment later merely by the sound of her voice.

The Young Wolf breaks into a smile as she crosses the threshold. Her eyes immediately drifting over the Titan's half-naked form appraisingly as she makes her way up to him.

Shaxx always enjoys her gaze and it's enough to unfurl him from his deliberating hunch. His arms extend, drawing her close once she's within reach as he does so often. It's second nature for them. Her return requires immediate contact and a delay in whatever task.

In this case, the task is menial and he's more than happy to redirect his focus to his partner.

"Guardian. I didn't know you'd returned."

"I just got in." She hugs him then, arms stretched up to bind around his neck and her head settles exactly atop the scar Shaxx had been inspecting.

…could it have come from her? One of her nightmares?

No. She's held blades to his throat in her panic but she's never struck. If she had, she wouldn't be nearly as…open. She'd withdraw like a scared animal, terrified of harming him again.

He knows his partner too well for anything less of an observation.

But when she draws back, the Guardian presses a sweet kiss to the scar before looking up at him warmly. She must see his intrigue because her head tilts as her brow furrows.

"What is it?"

"I'm afraid this question comes as an embarrassment, but do you remember the source of that scar? It seems…I've forgotten and it troubles me."

The Warlord watches as she straightens, resting a hand just shy of the scar as her eyes soften. Her thumb traces the edge, a distant look overpowers her usually sharp gaze.

"I don't know precisely how it happened…but it was there when I returned from the Dreaming City after Petra and I hunted down Uldren Sov. You were…a bit distracted. I came home, you helped me remove my armor and you weren't wearing a shirt."

Yes, he remembers that part. He'd been worried about her - that she'd come home in someone's arms as she had carried Cayde home the same way.

He'd been so relieved, as if–

His eyes fall to the scar, gazing steadily at it in the mirror beside them.

No. We can't…manifest wounds, can we?

"You never told me how it happened and when I tried to press? You told me not to worry, that I was home and that was all that mattered." She finishes softly.

He can feel her gaze on him; the quiet, curious, searching gaze she bears so often. Her touch is warm and tender as she continues her trace over the mark in his skin.

Lord Shaxx does not recall that portion of the conversation nor his dismissal of her concern. He remembers a great pain in his chest subsiding then but he'd always thought it was just…emotional. That he'd been relieved she has home.

He is rarely out of armor. When he is, he's in bed with her, the lights are off and it is not his own body he memorizes.

Could it have been more?

Is such a thing possible?

"Shaxx?" She says his name so softly, so tentatively, it surprises him. His eyes find hers in the mirror - patient, warm, and perhaps a twinge of sympathy.

"Do you…not remember how it happened, my Titan?"

There is no other plausible explanation.

"I think, perhaps, I know the answer." He returns thoughtfully, "But it is…something unprecedented."

The Young Wolf smiles, her head turning away from the mirror. He watches her fingers hook along his chin and guide his focus to her beyond the mirror.

"When have we ever been anything but unprecedented?" She asks with a teasing smile yet there is a degree of solemness in her gaze. As if she understands what he hasn't uttered.

Her absence had harmed him. Her self-destructive spiral that avenged Cayde nearly broke her Warlord.

But instead of pulling away, the Guardian steps up to him. She kisses the mark again; a slow, tender gesture that flutters Shaxx's heartbeat.

When her head lifts, there is something like adoration in her eyes.

"I'll make sure you never endure one of these again. That you'll look in that mirror and see only what you recognize." She assures him firmly.

He registers the twinge of Solar against his skin, her palm flush against his pectoral. His own hand lifts, cupping hers with a familiar tenderness only the two of them share.

"You will be as you are. The Guardian. The City's Last Hope. Our Savior." His head lowers, resting his forehead against hers as they both relax into the moment, into Shaxx's words.

"Let me worry about the matters of my heart. You act as you always have - as the Young Wolf. As our protector."

"I will."

—

Forevers: @halo-2 @reaped-winnower @forgotten-by-the-stars @sugarcoated44 @cayde-6 @aetosavros​ @niemands-bibliothek @paracausal-hunter @silverhandsamurais @orbdotexe

Shaxx's Guardians: @ataraxia101 @squirrel-stars @scattershotmind

[criticalfai1ure]

scars , piercings , & tattoos post !

red : electrocution / burn scars littered across his back, arms, belly and chest ; evidence of almost constantly scraped knees from throughout his childhood ; a poorly healed stab wound in his upper right thigh ; slight gouges encircling his left leg just below mid-calf, having been caught in a small bear trap two days out from his escape, and matching slices on his fingertips from prying it open.

tangerine : several bullet grazes and stitched-up knife wounds ; a gnarly scar hidden by the collar of his well-pressed shirt, a healed over gsw no thanks to ladybug. pierced ears - both lower lobes, once. tattoos - a swallow on the top of each wrist ; a hanging set of boxing gloves on his inside right forearm ; a fancy english bulldog on the inside of his left forearm ; the west ham united castle logo on the back of his left forearm ; a smattering of stars on his right shoulder forming gemini.

hugo : burn marks on his hands from literally playing with fire, he's missing his left thumbprint and his right middle finger print because they've accidentally been burnt off ; a little slice above his left eyebrow from bashing his head on the corner of a coffee table when he was four ; various nicks and scrapes on his legs and arms from work incidents and one b&e where he climbed through a broken glass window. pierced ears - twice on the right lobe, once on the lower left, a little hoop in his left cartilage. tattoos - small, poorly illustrated, faded line-work dragon breathing red and orange fire on his upper right arm ; a 3/4 inch thick solid black band with a thinner line beneath it both encircling his left forearm just below his elbow.

james : what should have been a life-ending stab wound to his chest, if not for elizabeth and the magic of calypso.

baz : a scar over his left eye, stretching down his cheek to a slightly chipped tusk ; several nicks and scrapes from fights he didn't have a healer around for. pierced ears - double gold hoops in his left lobe, a cuff on his right ear. tattoos - a hospitality dragonmark.

ivan : a few, faded, inconsequential ones on hands and knees, elbows, etc. from younger years and attempts at healing that he’s simply never bothered to have someone tailor away ; claw marks of the sherborn bear that becomes his amplifier ; volcra scars - 1. a scar that starts just beneath his jaw on his right side, down past his shoulder to his back, ending right around his shoulder blade, from a volcra that had come up on him from behind. 2. a bite mark that almost looks like he might’ve lost a chunk of flesh with how poorly it looks healed over. 3. a jagged set of parallel lines on his left forearm from where the volcra that had bit him had pinned him to the ground with a claw. the first was in the process of a hasty heal job before he was interrupted by the second attack and 2 & 3 severely hurt his ability to rend as they continued to make their escape ; nichevo'ya scars - light-black/darkish-grey lines that colour the tips of his fingers and fracture as they spread down his hands and past his wrists. these are mirrored on his feet, until they fade passing his ankles. the shadows seem to fade over time and will ultimately settle into a grey colour once he is able to reconnect or find a new amplifier. he does not retain any part of his shadow monster.

gus : a scar crossing his right eye, the original wound causing the loss of his sight in that eye but becoming the catalyst of realisation for who he truly is ; the shadows of scars gained upon each death he has endured. pierced ears - once in his left lobe.

diego : a long scar along his right temple from redirecting a bullet aimed for one of his sibs on what becomes his last mission as teenagers ; a nick over his left eyebrow ; many nicks and scrapes gained from training and missions, growing up with the umbrella academy. tattoos - an encircled umbrella on his left wrist.

bernie : nicks and scrapes from growing up as a knight of the realm. pierced ears - three studs on both lobes ; a stud in her left cartilage.

[cryptiql]

riptide

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, some mildly suggestive flashbacks + detailed descriptions of drowning. as always, please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 4.9k

a/n: welcome to the sequel of smoke signals. perish :)

dabi made a mistake. the knowledge sits in the bottom of his stomach like a lump of lead; his innards twisting into a knot whenever the memory of you crosses the expanse of his sleep deprived mind. the burns under his eyes might as well be bags, but they aren't large enough to bear the weight of his guilt. it isn't much better sitting on his shoulders, but the repercussions of pain are what keep him from letting it go, and that's exactly what he wants. no—it's what he deserves. he deserves the feeling like his head is going to burst; the ache in his spine from too many hours spent hunched over himself with a bottle clutched between his shaking hands; the burning intensity from overuse of his quirk. the extra inches of marred skin serve as reminders of what he did, but it's not half as satisfying when the pain doesn't last.

he wants to scratch at the wounds until they ooze that bitter garnet liquid; until he's suffocated by the metallic scent and forced to endure as the taste of blood engraves itself on his tongue when he chokes on it. he wants to suffer—the slower the better—because not even the strongest alcohol can cleanse his sins, nor the stench of his regret.

dabi made a mistake. it won't be the last time, he's able to admit, because his ego is too shriveled from the lack of your warmth, and his heart yearns for the passion of your kiss that still lingers on his lips. when the loft echoes with fragments of the city's ambience, drowning him in an incessant racket, he longs for the lighthouse. this place is infested with selfish ingrates, scuttling about in search of the next outcast to torment, and it makes him wish he still had that safe space at the shore. your siren song was a drug to put him at ease, and now he is without it, and the withdrawal has taken effect.

he knew this would come to pass. dabi overdosed on your love; your affection; your everything; all while watching the consequences unravel at a snail's pace, almost as if he were being teased by the inevitable end. he let it happen. he did this to himself, so he won't shake his hands at the sky, cursing gods he doesn't know exist; as if they would concern themselves with the faults of men like him.

he knew this would happen.

but then, so did you. you had to have known by the empty space in your bed where he used to lay; by the dates that kept getting postponed and the meaningless promises made to make up for them; by the shortage of visits, even just to say "hello" before he dropped from the face of the earth once more. if this were true, it meant that you were suffering just the same—nay, more than him, by forcing yourself into a state of compliance whenever he told you it was time for him to go. dabi could pretend like he didn't see your fingers twitching; resisting the urge to reach out for him; just as he could pretend like the rivulets of tears on your cheeks did not exist, though they begged to be swept away by him. god, he wants to hold your face again, noses brushing together and your dreamy sighs melding with his raspy laughter.

he had told himself that you wouldn't deter him from his goal, but even that seems like a pipe dream now. he feels like an underachiever, chasing a future that can't be set in stone when he already had you, which should have been enough. dabi realizes that the flames of his own passionate desire for freedom have burned you in the process, and it hurts more than he can put into words. you were always better with words, he reminisces, tracing the coffee stained parchment sitting in his pocket.

dabi has long since stopped reading the letters you sent, but he still carries them with him wherever he goes. they anchor him to both earth and sky; the reality that he's lost you, threatening to swallow him from under his feet; and the hope that he'll find you again, one day, after all this is over. "and just what do you think you're doing?"

you can see his reflection in the stove's glass sheen, his mouth drawn up into a devious smirk as he leans on the bedroom doorframe, clad in nothing but his briefs from the previous night. the purplish burns scaling his collarbone and abdomen give him a roguish look that—if you possessed no self-restraint—would normally have you lunging at him like a starved beast. you manage to smirk back at him, subtly shaking your hips while opening the stove door to pull out the doughy mound of bread inside. to your delight, you hear him grumble something not-so family-friendly before he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. you had never once thought that the feeling of staples against your skin would feel so good, but now you can hardly imagine being without it, and you immediately melt into dabi's touch.

he breathes softly in your ear, chuckling when you flinch in response, goosebumps stippling your flesh. by the way your cheeks puff out in embarrassment, he should take that as a sign to stop, but fuck, your pouting is just too cute for him to resist, especially when your worship-able body is basking in the afterglow of dusk. you keen when dabi starts peppering your shoulder blades with kisses, but nearly dropping the pan causes your senses to return, and you whisper a plea. luckily, he appears to be in a merciful mood, because he relents his onslaught of affection to rest his chin in the crook of your neck.

when he finally notices what you're making, he can't help but squeeze you tighter.

"is that a cake?"

you turn to give him a peck on the nose, which is rewarded with a halfhearted snap of his teeth just millimeters from your mouth.

"that'd be right. though, i'm astonished you know which way is up after last night." your sing-song tone of voice spurs him to squeeze your thigh, and you would have shooed him away if not for how much you liked it. dabi murmurs something unintelligible, the vibrations shooting straight down your spine, and proceeds to remove himself from you in order to better observe the baked delicacy.

"mm. what's it for?" he asks, discretely swiping a bit of the pink colored icing from the bowl to his right. sweet, but not sickeningly so.

you are none the wiser when dipping a spatula into the contents and smoothing it over the cake, a soft smile playing at your lips.

"you never told me when your birthday is, so i'm taking a wild guess. figured i'd whip this up as a surprise, but you woke up earlier than i suspected." dabi swears that his heart is about to burst from behind his ribcage, and all because you're too goddamn perfect. you may as well be a priceless work of art in museum that he's been prohibited from touching. however, the fading marks on your skin signify that he's done more than just touch, and he takes pride in the fact you can't seem to move further than two steps in any direction without faltering.

"i know angel food cake is your favorite—" dabi silences you with a kiss; bruising and passionate; and takes the spatula from your hand, blindly setting it aside on the counter. your protests are short-winded as he lifts you from your behind before promptly turning the oven off and spinning on his heel. he's memorized these halls well enough to not bump into anything during his trek back to the bedroom. you pull away, albeit with a hint of reluctance, just to glare at him.

"what about the—" dabi kisses you again, and while you don't seem too happy about being interrupted twice in a row, the shared heat between your bodies distracts you from being upset.

"you're off by about two months, doll. besides, i think i'd much rather have you as a late birthday treat."

dabi clenches his jaw at the memory, his knuckles whitening with how tenaciously he grips the tattered fabric of his jeans. the league's new base is just as rundown and close to crumbling as he feels, but his despair is masked by the rage that overpowers it. why couldn't you have been a normal couple? why couldn't dabi have grown up with a father who loved him; with a quirk that didn't gradually destroy him and without the resulting scars that made him a hideous monster in the eyes of all who saw him? why couldn't he be as beautiful on the inside as you said he was on the outside? why couldn't he just be happy, after all this time?

why? why? why?

dabi finds his answer hidden in the ashen battleground strewn with rubble and remnants of burnt remains. he finds it in the fear of his victims' expressions before the snare of death claims them in a flourish of blue inferno. it's written there in bold, ichor dripping from his fingers as they smear the message with red.

the privilege of living a normal life is, and always will be, beyond his reach. murder does not warrant mercy, and the only person willing to give it to him is miles away, still desperate for him to come back.

as fate would have it, you and dabi lived worlds apart, but you still look at the same sunset; the same array of stars forming constellations that told stories of your life shared together. they replay in his head like a record stuck on repeat, and only when the song ends does he find himself back in the clutches of his childhood trauma, rather than your embrace.

"dabi? dabi!" his trademark scowl automatically takes place when a finger prods and pulls at his cheek, the familiar voice of twice shaking him from his deep contemplation. jin has been so unfortunate as to suffer minor scorches from the ravenette's flames, on account of him being too bothersome at the wrong moments, and so he instantly backs away at the first indication of danger brewing in the air around him. with how on edge he's felt lately, he really should have gone on a walk to relieve some stress, but the looming knowledge that he can't go to the lighthouse would only ruin the trip.

dabi is fully prepared to smack jin's hand away until he sees what he's holding. he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, and even without it, the scent of saltwater and freshly baked bread clings to the paper, altering him of yet another one of your efforts to communicate with him. dabi feigns indifference towards the object; quite the contrary to his thinning patience as twice waves it above his head excitedly.

"you've got mail! who's is from? probably a useless nobody! or maybe a secret admirer? but who would admire you?"

to his dismay, the commotion has grabbed toga's attention, and she veers over to their location with a giddy grin on her face. she all but drapes herself over dabi as he snatches the letter from jin, and it doesn't help his struggle when she clings to him like a koala. after a bout of kicking and shoving, he manages to break free of her grasp, grimacing at her lengthy, high-pitched whines of disapproval.

"and can you believe hawks was the one to deliver it? i didn't take him for a carrier bird. . ."

dabi doesn't hear the rest, nor does he intent to, because he's already making his way to the nearest exit with haggard breaths. whoever calls out for him and whatever they say are the last of his concerns right now, and they're abruptly cut off when he slams the door behind him. the summer heat wills beads of sweat to paint his forehead, but he soon finds comfort under the shade of a tree, cicadas buzzing noisily overhead. he would sooner keel over and die than thank the birdbrain hero for catering to him—and by extension, you—but now that the note is there, begging to be read, he can't help but feel some sort of gratitude.

"i need you to do something for me."

the bristles of hawks' feather hover over dabi's pulse in a threatening manner, but he feels no more in peril than he would at the cruelty of a baby chick. he knows the number two hero won't harm him, at least not without regretting it later, and this is the perfect time to use that to his advantage. hawks narrows his eyes at him, nose wrinkling in accord.

"why would i do anything for you after that stunt you pulled?" he snarls, and dabi almost has to laugh at the drastic switch in personality. the way he presents himself to the public is a true contrast compared to the persona only he and the league have had the pleasure of seeing.

"because if you don't, everyone will know you've been fraternizing with the enemy, and we wouldn't want number two falling off his high pedestal, now would we?"

this time, dabi audibly laughs when hawks' guise wavers. the other grits his teeth, slowly withdrawing the feather and allowing it to fall limp at his side. he revels in his victory, short though it be, and reaches into his pocket to procure a letter marked with your name and address. putting your location at the disposal of a hero isn't something he's proud of doing, but it's all he has left, and he doesn't have the resolve to tell you directly.

coward, his conscious mocks as he holds it out for hawks to take. the winged man stares at it with befuddlement, his movements stalling here and there when he seizes the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. dabi tuts lightly but menacingly, yanking hawks towards him by the wrist and igniting his quirk to leave a faint mark there.

"you're gonna deliver this for me, no questions asked. don't you dare open it."

despite the clear uncertainty, hawks took heed of the ominous demand and carried it out later that night. he had not expected a young man with tear-stained cheeks to greet him at the door, much less the endless babble of 'thank you's as you took the letter with shaking hands.

dabi hadn't wished for you to send one back, but the ongoing stream of them was considered fair, after he'd left without much of a trace. still, he had promised himself that he would never read them, for fear of it opening the wound inflicted by having to say goodbye.

dabi can't understand the sudden change of mind for the life of him, and yet, he finds that he doesn't care whether it opposes every rule he set to keep you safe—to keep himself safe. he tears open the envelope and slumps against the tree trunk, bark and leather grating together as he hesitantly unfolds the parchment, briefly shutting his eyes as a last act of resistance to the helpless cry from within; longing for the familiarity of your poetic words. instead of the delicate precision that was to be anticipated, dabi stared down at your messy scrawl, a carnal fear rising from within and causing his throat to clamp up. the memories begin to flash at a faster rate, like an old-timey picture film. dabi has just finished putting the kettle on to boil when hears the floorboards creak, followed by the sound of your slippers shuffling across the floor. he snickers, remembering that the only pair you have is the one he bought you; a well worn match that looks oddly like cloud bunnies. you've made sure to exemplify how much you love the gift by wearing them around the house on rainy or lazy days, all paired with a wistful smile. this morning is no different as you worm your way under dabi's hold and press your face into his chest, a satisfied groan escaping you when he cards his fingers through your hair and scratches the scalp.

the robe you wear is half-hanging from your shoulders, which makes for an enticing view from where dabi stands, but he simply kisses the crown of your head and continues waiting for the pot to simmer.

"did you hear that noise?" you slur, just barely discernable over the kettle's shrieking. dabi quirks a brow in question as you rub the leftover grogginess from your eyes, tiredly nodding at the back window.

"little past midnight, i think. coulda sworn i heard somethin' rifling around in the trash." dabi squints at this new information while eyeing your appearance. the dark circles and intermittent yawning indicate a lack of sleep, and if he weren't there to keep you steady, you might collapse onto the floor as a snoring heap. if it really disturbed him, he should have woken me up, he thinks, pulling you closer with an ever-deepening frown. you snuggle up to him as if it's second nature, sleepily giggling away when his digits stray too close to your side.

"s'probably raccoons, but if you're worried, i can stay longer just to make sure." you look up at him with nothing short of pure, unbridled adoration, cupping his face and squishing it gently, to your own entertainment. after a moment of consideration, you shake your head.

"nah, you're probably right."

the feeling hits dabi like a tidal wave, dragging him below the raging surface; far below where the light of day cannot touch. it suffocates him and brings rise to the sickening taste of bile on his tongue, but he doesn't have time to spare in throwing it all up, so he swallows it. withered patches of grass crunch under his feet as he peels himself from the tree and breaks into a dash, sparing your letter the flames fueled by his anguish as to let it drift in the breeze, the single sentence written on it already engraved in his mind.

it wasn't raccoons.

dabi doesn't care what shigaraki will have to say about this when he gets back. the only thing he cares about is that you'll still be alive to say anything to him when he reaches you, and that whoever has invaded your home is willing to die for what they've done, or what they're currently doing, and fuck—he isn't even sure if this is you calling for help or not, but he can't risk being right.

the distance between the base and the lighthouse feels lightyears apart, yet simultaneously at arms length when dabi is running at speeds he hasn't ever been able to achieve before. if he stumbles at any point during his sprint, or if he happens to bump into an unsuspecting civilian on the street, he doesn't notice. the resonant thumping of his own heartbeat is all that he can hear as he thanks the gods for the flow of traffic being so spaced out, otherwise it would be near impossible for him to reach you in time.

in time for what? he has to ask. dabi doesn't even want to think about the repercussions, but the scenarios arrive in rivulets despite the mental trapeze he goes through to push them down, and they only continue to grow into oceans; darker, colder and harboring thoughts too gruesome for even someone of his caliber to handle. he won't realize until much later that he'd forgotten to put on his disguise, but the way people ogle at him with fear and disgust does not suppress the need to protect you.

even now, he can sense the pressure building behind his eyes, though it's more painful that it used to be. dabi hasn't cried in months, and it shows by how unabating the rivers of blood trickle from his skin grafts, despite his feverish attempts to stop them. look at yourself, holding together by a thread and weeping in public like a child whose lost his mother in the crowd. it wouldn't have come to this if he had stayed.

something shifts in the scenery; a distinct line drawn between the city and its neighboring countryside; but it makes no difference to the impending peril that looms ahead. the closer he gets, the sooner he'll find you waiting for him, dead or alive. dabi staggers, his breath hitching at the thought, as well as the harsh sting of pain that erupts when his knee collides with the gravel below. he pushes himself forward in little time, a strangled yell ripping his throat raw as his vision settles on the top of the lighthouse, peeking over the hillside. you have to be there—you just have to. he isn't done with you yet, and you're sure as hell not done with him.

the earth is damp beneath his feet, and it soaks through the canvas of his shoes whilst he darts past the boulevard and onto your property, crying out to you. surely, you must hear him. surely—

dabi practically hurls himself at the front door, his blood running cold when it opens for him effortlessly and swings ajar to reveal the living room, upturned and scattered with broken bits and pieces of furniture. there's no sign of you or whoever did this. the oakwood flooring groans under his weight as he barrels down the hall, peering into every room, beneath your bed and any other place where you could be hiding. nothing. his search ends in vain at the front doorstep, where he stands hunched over and dry heaving. no, no, no. you can't be gone.

"y/n!" he shouts. his only response is the crashing of waves against the shore and the incessant cawing of seagulls. for a moment, dabi forgets how to breathe, and then the ability returns to him; his legs aching horribly as he rushes to the beach. the arrangement of rocks is sporadic at first, but they gradually form large clumps the further he carries on, urging him to squeeze between the narrower openings. it comes with some difficulty, but at last he is able to hobble onto the sandy coast and rest his sights upon the vast sea. he can recall when seeing its murky blue sea would have put him at ease, but now it only causes his senses to be clouded with distress.

"y/n!" the once calm ripples rise into rolling billows that drench the shoreline in frothy heaps of algae, wreckage and blood. it curls and disbands within the ocean to pollute its cerulean hues with ones of scarlet red, and just like that, dabi's heart sinks like the titanic. he'll never forget the sight of you, face-down in the water; your favorite shirt slashed to shreds, clinging to your body as nothing more than a tattered mess. dabi wades into the water until it reaches his ankles, completely numb to its freezing temperature as he sinks down to hoist you up. he rests you on his thighs and presses his lips onto yours with urgency, shortly pulling back so that he can thrust his palms upon your chest and push. he doesn't care to remember how many times he repeats this, but when he finally sits back on his haunches to release a stifled curse, the feeling of dread has only just begun to take control.

you've never looked so pale.

a guttural sob wrenches itself past his grinding teeth as more tears arise, dappling your cheeks like raindrops. it wracks his body and sends forth a surge of agony to course through his veins. dabi cups your face with a shaking hand, the other secured around your waist while he kisses you, his erratic pleas falling upon deaf ears.

"come back. . .come back." his bawling ceases to end, no matter the abrasive pain blossoming in his gullet.

"c'mon, doll. where's that sweet voice of yours?" his thumb strokes your bottom lip as though beckoning you to speak. when nothing follows, he makes a pathetic sniveling sound mixed with something broken; a blubber or whine, he does not know. the burden of your lifeless form causes the reality to set in; a dagger piercing his insides and twisting as to drag the most blood-curdling screams from him.

dabi loved you, and he wishes he had the strength to say it when you were still there. it was only within the presence of his own demons that he was able to utter his affections; curled into himself and waiting for a reply that would never come, carried on the wind that bit his skin. he loved you because you held him like a child when his father hadn't even the heart to acknowledge him as his own. you spoke his name—his real name—as though the blood on his hands was not there; like you had washed it away yourself through acts of tenderness that he did not deserve.

and now you're gone.

you're gone, and—

dabi's entire body jolts with a start, a familiar heat dancing across the grafts of his marred skin. a faint blue glow radiates from his fists, which are tightly fastened the weighted blanket that lays crumpled atop his legs. he lets go with a shuttering gasp, observing the black smudges that reside where his flames once were, then blinking owlishly at his surroundings. the room is shrouded in darkness, all save for the bedside table to the left of him that is dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. that, and the spaces illuminated by the moon's brilliance, showering the floor with multicolored spots as it glistens through the stained glass window. something slots into place, but all it does is send dabi's mind into overdrive.

where is he? where are you? are you really dead? everything hurts.

his nails drag down the length of his arms, seeking some sort of comfort in the pain that blooms there. it doesn't last long, however, when the bed suddenly dips, and a soothing warmth is placed on the small of his back.

"touya?" you croak, your words lingering with the remnants of sleep. dabi—no—touya, swears that he could cry again, right then and there. his eyes flit over your torso, where several scars in varying sizes have desecrated the skin. as he idly traces the pink lines, one final memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious. him, desperately pounding your sternum; the last threads of denial snapping in tune; and you, coughing and spewing both curses and whatever seawater that had clogged up your lungs. touya held you in that same position for hours, listening as your ragged wheezing turned into hiccupping sobs. hauling you inside had been no easy feat, and having to hear your muffled groans while he stitched you up by the crackling hearth was no better, but the evening after had been pleasant.

you could not recollect the face of the intruder, and with such little information to go off of, touya was left to wallow in self-loathing for love he had almost lost. no amount of therapy could prevent the following nightmares and panic attacks, but in time, the rekindling of your relationship was proved successful, and dabi was prepared to repay you for the moments where you consoled him.

it wasn't just a dream. it had all happened, and yet here you were, alive and well.

a pensive look crosses your features when you note how quiet touya is, and you take it as a sign to break the tension with a tried-and-true method from the past. he doesn't resist as you coo softly, pulling him under the covers and wrapping yourself around him, a garbled tune fleeing from past your lips before you press them to his shoulder. you trail the faintest of butterfly kisses along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and so on. the anxiety coiled in touya's chest starts to untangle, leaving him as a trembling bundle of nerves in your arms as you shush him, your nimble fingers carting through his hair.

if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed at how the tables have turned; with you cradling him in the way he's so used to doing. still, not even he can deny that it feels nice to be held like this.

"s'alright sweetheart. i'm here. . ." you whisper, and the effect is instantaneous. touya stills as he inhales the scent of buttercream and fresh pine that wafts into the bedroom, his eyelids fluttering shut. all he can hope for is that your presence will drive away any nightmares that foreshadow his well-needed rest, and that when he wakes up in the morning, you'll still be at his side.

dabi made a mistake, and thousands more will come to pass, because underneath the grit and grime that makes up his callous exterior, there is a human being; struggling to survive and struggling to please, just as much as the next. but he'll never leave you again. he had promised you as such with the band of gold now encircling your ring finger, and as long as he lives, he'll never break it.

[binniesthighs]

➵ minho, son of hades ➵

Pairing: self insert, gender neutral reader x lee minho

Genre: fluff n’ smut

Tags: demigod au, inspired by PJO, sonofhades!minho, softdom!minho, mentions of death, blood, and the underworld, outdoor sex, unprotected sex (stay safe lovlies!), breath play, hand stuff (r receiving), marking, cockwarming at the end 

Word count: 2k

demigod skz mini-masterlist coming soon

{did you bring the mcdonalds?}

Though you had long forgotten, someone had told you once that there is always light in the darkness, you just have to be the one looking for it. But, what if it was the darkness in that light that sought you?

You had forgotten meeting him in the first place, but now he was everywhere, in the dawn and the dusk, in dark corners that you used to fear, but now welcomed. Reflected in his eyes was hellfire: he singed with burning edges but froze over with a bite. You should have been scared of him, as any sane person would. 

In those creeping tendrils of shadow, ebony wisps of smoke where the ones that entangled their fingers in yours. His hands were cold wrapped up in pale white skin that wasn’t stark, but rather mimicked the moonlight he had brought you to. 

Silver dewdrops were sprinkled at your feet where they clung to the blades of youthful spring grass. The chill of the night was just enough to make you shiver, but having gotten used to him, you could handle the cold. He tugged at your wrist, saying nothing, but twisting between the slabs of limestone and concrete. 

“Respect the dead. Just because they’re gone, it doesn’t mean that they weren’t people too.” 

His reminders would linger on your mind, much like the ways that he would tell you stories about what it was like...the underworld. Having been there so many times, you would have thought that it would have made him jaded, or broken him in some kind of way that made the pieces of him just a bit disjointed. But, it never did. 

A thin fog held over the cemetery just barely above your shins, and the humidity stuck to your bare legs. Wings flapped above to two of you: birds or bats, you couldn’t tell, but it somehow felt comforting knowing that you’re weren’t the only ones awake at this hour. Amongst the chirp the the crickets, the little string of silver and brass keys jingled at his waist. 

He had lead you deeper, nearest to the edge of the little maze of stones, to a pure, marble white gazebo cut from the smoothest white rocks. The stone itself appeared to glisten like the foamy crests of waves. In the middle, was a single large bench of the same cut. 

“Lets sit here for a while.” 

You know what that strand of skeleton keys meant, each one bearing the symbols of Hades. “Minho, I-I know what you’re going to say--” 

“--I have to go back. But, this time it won’t be for long.” 

“You can just...stay? Just for one more day?” 

An exhaustion dragged at Minho’s eyes, the kind that you had seen many times before on him. Even with wrinkles under his eyes, they were still set aflame with the same passion that each of the children of Hades held. 

“It’s important.” He simply answered, raising his freezing had to caress down your cheek. “You know that.” 

“I just wish you wouldn’t...wish you wouldn’t...” 

He had drawn you into his chest, a gesture which had felt different to you than it had with others. From a boy who walked the line of life and death so thinly, being close to him like this was your tether, your promise. His heartbeat thumped softly beside yours, and it was enough. 

He took your hands into his, “I got you something.” 

“You didn’t have to--” 

“--Take it. I want you to have it.” 

The sting of the metal necklace startles your skin. It was a simple sliver chain, but inlaid on the charm was a small garnet gem that sparkled like stars, resembling that of a pomegranate seed. 

“It’s gorgeous...”  

“-Pulled it out myself.” He swept aside your shirt collar to bring the clasps around your neck, then traced adoring fingertips over where it crowned your skin. His weary expression gave you a proud little smile. “It looks amazing on you.” 

“Why does this make it seem like you’ll be gone much longer than you say you are?” 

Minho sighed out with eyes cast to the rooftop of the gazebo. Etched into the stone was the insignia of his father: the pitchfork. You had been pretending not to look at it too. Once more, a hopeful little laugh slipped past his lips. 

“I thought that you knew that I’ll always come back to you? And they can’t harm me down there.” 

“You and I both know that’s not true.” 

“Don’t you trust me at all?” 

“Am I not allowed to worry?” 

After a moments pause, and the resounding sound of the hissing cicadas, he answered, “You are.” 

You should have been terrified of him. Even though you had forgotten meeting him, there was one thing that you had never let go of, and something that many misunderstood. In him, there was benevolence: something so deeply tranquil about the thread to be cut over life and death. You had never been fearful of him. 

The cold marble burned slightly at your thighs. 

“I miss you too when I leave. You’re the reason; you’re what keeps me coming back here so I’m never wandering. Understand?” 

The world turned a blur, and his fingers wiped at the tears cascading down your cheeks. 

“Please don’t cry.” He kissed at the salty tears in the corners of your eyes and cheeks as if he were healing the scars made by the stains. 

“I’ll miss you too. Like I always do.” 

“All the more reason for me to hurry back.” 

You scooched into his chest once more, taking a fistful of his cotton white shirt. 

“You always know what to say.” 

His hands took the sides of your face simply and carefully, hushing his lips lightly into yours like a whisper, like the way that the evening breeze got tangled in the branches of the birch trees. Soft and delicate like rose petals he kissed into your lips in the way that he would keep the shadows of the world at bay just for you. Minho wove delicious webs of want from corner to corner of your mouth. The taste of his tongue too bit like that fruit of the underworld, but to you, it had never tasted sweeter. 

With your hands weakly clinging to his shirt, he uttered, “May I have you one more time?” 

The fog had lifted over the cemetery, and you nodded right back into his lips. 

He rested his hand behind your head where he laid you down against the cool stone, the sensation giving rise to goosebumps on your skin. One by one, he laced his fingers between yours to your side while he returned back to your mouth to lend it his warmth. There was a mischievous little grin that teased from his lips to yours, then traced down your jaw to the twitching vein on your neck. With your closed eyes, all you could see was crimson and all you could feel was the way the he pulled at the skin of your neck, drawing forth those little marks he had given you dozens of before. 

Once he had finished painting your skin with his adoration, he kissed at each spot. The tingling sensation of his saliva on your neck mixed with the evening air sent shivers down your sides. 

The same cold fingers came exploring up the fabric of your shirt and swirled over your skin so lightly that you felt your whole body buckle. 

The evening’s breeze swept past you once more and his curious hands sent mewls from your mouth to mix with the symphony of the evening, but it was all for him. It only heightened once his hand had skillfully popped the button of your shorts, and his curious fingers delved inside further. He rubs at you purposefully, slowly, with fingers getting muddled in your arousal, teasing at how painfully needy you have become for him. 

“My love, there is nothing on this earth or in hell that will keep me from coming back to you. I’m just as much yours as you are mine.” 

You fight the tears that threaten your eyes, merely laughing out to avoid them. 

“You really do always know what to say.” 

“But I mean it.” He drags the pad of his fingertip over your slit. 

The marble is frigid under your bare legs and ass once he rids you of your bottoms, freeing more space for his hand to trace over the swollen skin of your sex. His lithe fingers feel intoxicating where he curves into you after wetting them with his mouth. Every electric little response from you and each half-uttered whimper and moan he lavishes in. In his obsidian eyes, you are everything that makes up the expanse between his two worlds. 

His other hand rides up your body to clasp around your neck, applying just as much pressure until your choked gasps test his own will. 

The keys on his beltloop fall to the floor with a metallic sounding clank. He sits, marveling at the vision of you before him, bathed in moonlight, and your chest throwing itself to every one of the gasps which chase the last. Minho looms over you like the shadow of coming night, and you welcome him with open arms.

Even like this, he should have terrified you, but never him, never the one who had guided you through the darkness hidden in the fissures of light. 

Minho gives himself all to you, coaxing himself into you deeply and completely: a feeling so whole that it must be impossible. Beside you, the earth resonates with cracks and fractures which send out little earthquakes amidst the slabs of concrete and little bouquets of wildflowers. A golden glow illuminates against the birches and the oaks. 

He’s lost himself in you, rolling deeply over your core as those branches bow in the wind. He’s cracked open Hell itself while he slips further into you. 

“M-minho--” 

“No.” He commands, and the golden glow illuminates his face, “Look at me.” 

He bites into your lip kisses of his own careless and breathy moans. 

“Look at me.” 

He renews his pace with the ever-growing spectral glow threatening to break the surface. The jet black strands of his hair bounce a little as he fucks you into the slab of marble, giving you no pause at all. 

“I-I’m--Minho--” 

The thin sliver chain of your necklace threads between his fingertips where briefly studies it’s shine. He’s kept the shadows away this long, now, as he finds himself near the edge too, the atmosphere turns heavy. Minho changes to lend your leaking and twitching sex the attention that it desires, and you unravel, just a little at first, then all at once. A mess of inhales and exhales flutter out of your mouth then your teeth catch your lip accidently, drawing just a little blood. Quickly, he uses his thumb to rub away the little red dot while chuckling, 

“Don’t get too carried away darling.” 

You look directly in his eyes as you shudder underneath him to plead wordlessly for what he knows you want. You can barely manage the words, but you know it’ll be all that it takes. 

“Feel you-inside...I-I want you to--” 

With one of his freezing hands, he hikes your thigh up to find his perfect angle, grazing you deep inside. White noise fills up your head when he drives one more orgasm out of you, turning you inside out into a proper, quivering mess. The marble doesn’t feel as cold anymore when he cums inside you with shaking thighs and a heaving chest. The pitchfork symbol above your heads catches your blurry vision, but so does the peaking red and yellow sun on the horizon that melts into the emerald tree line. 

Minho holds you into him for as long as he can manage. Unspoken words fill the air between you while you’re still connected as one. 

“There’s...nothing else I can do to convince you to stay longer with me?” Your fingertips find their way through his sweating scalp. 

He nods no with an type of acute sadness in his eyes while he memorizes your features for what he thinks to be the last time in a long while. 

“I can’t stay any longer. The business of the dead is much more different than the living.” 

Just past his shoulder, you discover three or four fireflies flickering like floating candles: the light in the dark: and you weren’t even looking for it at first. 

“Then at least, can I just ask until the sun rises? Will you stay?” 

He plants one last kiss upon your forehead, “Until the sun rises. 

[my-socialdiary]

Behind His Mask

Words Count: 1973

Pairing: Childe x Lumine

Warning: it contains intense fighting scenes, blood

Here we go again, an angsty fanfiction about Childe and Lumine. For these past days I’ve been CONSUMED by this pairing and all I can think is that writing angsty story for them just becauseeeeee. And again, english is not my first language so bear with me >_< enjoy! 

***

He pushed them, they went away. It’s fair. It’s how things should be done. 

He also pushed her. He pushed her so badly, he even did wicked; he lied, he betrayed her, he even broke her faith in him. He showed her his bad side. 

Yet, 

She stayed. She smiled. She put up with everything he did. 

She’s too good to be true. She’s too perfect for someone like him.

She’s…

Unreal.

Lumine knows sooner or later, she needs to confront her biggest enemy in this quest given by Zhongli. Her enemy, he is someone who is now carving the biggest scar in her life, pushing her away because of the perspective that has been given to him, made him believe that he’s wicked. 

Yes, dozens of times, she wanted to run away from him but she just couldn't do that. Somehow, deep down in her heart, she wants to believe… in him. 

And today, she’s trying to not let her faith be shaken while she’s seeing Childe一now finally一standing in front of her, showing her that he’s her enemy she needs to beat in order to complete the quest. 

“Well… what do we have here?” His voice sounds different. It’s not the voice of Childe she knows. “Finally, the time has come. I don’t need to explain anything, don’t I? Let’s just start the battle, then.” As he was saying that, he forms a water blade each in his hands. The sound of water along with the groans of the whale. 

“No. I want an explanation.”

“No. You don’t need one,” he said. “You’ve already seen the facts but you just want to believe in your own thoughts and opinions.” Childe walks forward, he lifts up his right hand and makes a slashing move towards Lumine. 

All she needs is just one second. She dodge her way and try to balance herself while aiming her right hand forward, palm facing directly to Childe, ready to cast palm vortex. She’s shocked by Childe’s sudden movement, but she tries to calm herself. She’s now looking at him, and trying to convince herself that this is still the man she knows. But all she sees is that the warm smile is now replaced by a cold, distant smile. “You have no idea who I am, do you?” His eyes were cold and lifeless. There’s anger, rage and… guilt. “Why are you holding back?” He asks with his husky voice. He raised up his eyebrow and gave her a smirk. 

“I demand an explanation, Childe,” meanwhile, she takes her sword from her back. “Now.”

“I told you since we first met,” He is now moving again and striking her with his blade, twice. Which makes her now tossed to the side, dealing high damage to her body. Pain creeped up through her palm, making her unable to cast anything except fight him with her sword. “I am a bad guy. But you don’t believe.” Before Childe can do anything, she gathered up her stamina and stood up then ran to the center of the Golden House. 

“The truth is, I was just going to aggressively ignore that part until it goes away,” she said. Suddenly, a burst of wind fills up this space. Soon enough Childe sees a hurricane come right towards him, but he doesn’t have enough time to escape from it. The pain it caused is not high enough to stop him so as soon as he freed himself from the grasp of the hurricane, he took out his bow and shot her with six consecutive water arrows. Her body is now marked with Riptide Blast which deals more damage to her body. 

“That’s definitely not going to work!” He shouted. He now changes himself into his delusion, which is an electro and casts his homing attack. A purple-ish ring of electricity appears around her body. Before it can deal anymore damage, she runs and attacks him with her sword, once, twice, thrice. Cancelling his moves. 

Childe seems tough but now she’s sure that she’s dealing enough damage to him. And that makes her heart ache. But she is still attacking him, half of it represents her anger towards Childe. I hate you. You hurt me. I want to kill you so badly. The tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down her face. She feels the muscles of her arms tremble like a small child caught stealing those delicious fried radish balls. Her walls, the walls that hold her up all this time just… collapsed. Ruined. Destroyed. 

Her sword is making clanging sound when it met with Childe’s water blade as he tries to defend himself. With her endless attack, she is now slowly pushing Childe to the wall. I can't stop... I can't stop. Why can I not stop crying? She thinks to herself. Her vision is blurry, but she still can see expressions Childe makes. Eventually, she now pinned him to the wall. Panting, she stopped attacking and now looked at him. Her right hand holding a sword pointed to his throat, ready to slit it while her left arm held him in his chest. “All this time… you made me feel so many… emotions,” she muttered between her breath. “I was sad, confused and angry… but I couldn’t understand why,” She pressed her sword gradually into his throat. “But why does it have to be you? Why, Childe, why?” She just broke down. The sobs bursted out, ripping through her throat, muscles, and guts. 

She didn’t care anymore. All she wants is just to stop this nonsense, go back in time and choose not to follow him after he saved her from the Millelith guard. She would rather not meet him. Or she would rather not come to Liyue at all. 

Next, all she knew was she dropped her sword with a trace of Childe’s blood and pressing her forehead into his chest while grabbing his armor with both hands. She cried. And cried. And cried. She can’t hold it anymore, she chooses not to. The pain came out like madness in the form of a scream. She thought if she acted like it didn’t matter, then it wouldn’t. But turns out the more she pretends, the greater pain she gets. 

“I don’t want to put up with everything you did anymore,” She whispered. 

***

Memories are the worst form of torture. 

And Childe couldn’t agree more with that. You can heal the pain from physical torture with herbs and medicine fom Bubu Pharmacy but you can’t just cut you head off to get rid of things you don’t want to remember. Even though you really want to do that. Even though that ‘thing’ is the most beautiful thing he ever experienced. The thing that he will never, ever dare to dream in his life. And that’s exactly what he feels now. 

The muffled sobs wracked against his chest. The world turned into a blur, and so did all the anger he tried to keep. Except for those damn memories. Instead of forgetting it, it keeps playing in his head, rewind itself, filling his mind with a picture of her smiles, her cheerful expression, her flowing hair, her beautiful golden eyes and conclude with the sound of her footsteps, keep coming back to him even though he pushed her away. 

Childe, I’m back! Are you feeling better now?

Childe, I hope you don’t mind if I come back here. 

Childe, let’s go! You won’t think I’ll leave you here alone, will you?

Childe, I was being too pushy yesterday, wasn’t I? Sorry, I’ll try my best not to do it again if you don’t like it. 

Childe…!

Childe!

...Childe!

He tries to shrug that off. He doesn’t want to remember anything at all. 

Childe looks down where he sees her bleeding head, probably from one of his attacks. That girl is still burying her face in his chest, clutching his clothes, begging him to stop all of this, while he tried so hard to not lift up both his arms and bring her to his embrace. The sound of her footsteps played again. Stop coming back. Just… stop. I didn’t deserve you. His head now swarms with new formed-regrets. 

“I regret a lot of things,” he finally opens his mouth. The heaviness was in his limbs as much as his throat. He sounded tired. “Having this kind of conversation tops the list.” He pushed Lumine from himself just to see her face, now red and wet because of tears. He tried to look away but his eyes were stubborn. “Now let’s finish this game and一”

“Is this a game to you?” 

“It’s nothing more than a game with reward,” He forms the electric polearm. Ready to fight her. He’s bleeding, but he doesn’t care. “You should’ve slit my throat. Now I won’t give you another chance.” As he said that, the mask that he keeps on his hair flies over to cover his face entirely. His mind is now consumed and so all of his action. The anger form in a mask is now a safe haven to protect him from the regrets. With this anger, now he can freely do anything he wants. With this anger, his fear of hurting someone he cherishes is now gone.  

“I give you the chance to kill me, but you don’t,” With the mask on, his voice has now changed drastically. “This is what cost you for thinking that I can be tricked by your actions!” That gravelly voice is now filling up the entire Golden House, making it tremble a little. Without hesitation, he comes towards the weaponless Lumine and attacks her with his electric polearm. He didn't mind electrifying, slashing and stabbing her with his weapon. Lumine tried nothing to defend herself, she’s now beaten, smacked, thumped and all of her body is screaming with ache but she keeps doing nothing. Because she knows; nothing is matter for him right now. He had been titled Eleventh of The Fatui Harbingers for a reason. 

Behind his mask, it pained him to let out all of his attacks to her yet soon enough… a little bit more energy in a form of purple flash and waves combined into one deadly attack should be enough to kill her, giving him a sense of satisfaction amongst agony to end all of this. 

Childe is now casting his final spell when suddenly a burst of wind blows away his mask, exposing his rough face. At that time, his eyes locked to Lumine who is now strengthless, her eyes are half closed, and she’s bleeding everywhere. It was Lumine who blew the wind for the last time and made him realize what he did to her.

“Do… it…” She said under her breath. 

“No…” The anger is now gone, his emotions are back, his eyes now filled with fear, anxiety and guilt. He threw his polearm and kneel beside the girl who did nothing but good things to him. “What did I do… No…Lumine, no…” He has seen so many deaths, he never truly cried. But now, he’s unable to speak, unable to breath. The world around him becomes darker. The weight in his chest locks in his throats. A token of sorrow and misery. He bawls and screams, and that is more than crying. It sounded like a desolate weeping that comes from a person drowned in the sea of regrets. His tears mingled with the rain outside Golden House which suddenly showered the entire Liyue and his gasping wails echoed around that place. 

“Childe一” She whispered, and coughed a little bit. 

“All this time,” he cuts her sentence. His voice is now trembling with agony. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing… what?”

“Treating me…” He sobs, again. “Like a person.”

She smiles. “Because you are.”

[purpleswans1]

The Sun Hashira

I published this on AO3 a while ago, but just now am getting around to adding it here. Oh well. A while back, this concept drilled its way into my head and didn't stop until I wrote it down, so here we are.

--------------------------------------------

He only thought about his old battle-brother again after nearly a decade due to Kyojuro. The boy had gotten it into his head to succeed his father as the Flame Hashira, despite his own lack of talent and Shinjuro’s despair. Kyojuro stole the flame breathing books of his ancestors and was still training in secret. This led to a loud argument that only ended when Senjuro - timid, quiet little Senjuro who usually hid in a corner - jumped on Shinjuro’s back to try and pull him away from his brother.

Once Shinjuro had settled down and made it to the bottom of a sake bottle, he realized that it wasn't his son’s fault that he was so impertinent. Tanjuro had retired when Kyojuro was still a baby, so he couldn’t remember what true greatness was. Most of the Demon slayers from that time were dead now. Of those who had fought beside the Sun Hashira, only Urokodaki, Old man Kuwajima, and Shinjuro himself remained in the land of the living. Even the late Ubuyashiki head had finally succumbed to his curse and left matters in the hands of young Kagaya.

It had been so long. Over a decade at this point; they were in the Taisho Era now. It was past time for Shinjuro to visit his battle-brother and possibly forgive him for leaving.

-----------------------------------------------

“Excuse me, but do you know Tanjuro Kamado?”

“Hm?” The shopkeeper in the small village town tilted her head. “Oh, why yes! Kamado-san makes the best charcoal in the prefecture. And his family is so kind! I wish my little Kanime would take after Tanjiro, you rarely see such a well-behaved boy these days.”

So, he does have a family. “I’m an old acquaintance of his and haven’t visited in a while,” Shinjuro carefully explained. “Would you mind giving me directions to his house?”

“Of course!” The lady clapped her hands together. “Just follow the mountain pass over there, past Saburo-san’s house, for about half a day. Actually, Tanjiro-kun just left here, so if you run you may catch up to him.

Unlikely, especially if he’s from that man’s bloodline.

-----------------------------------------------

“You look well, Rengoku.”

Shinjuro couldn’t bring himself to reply with the same greeting. When he’d last seen Tanjuro, the only sign of his debilitating illness had been a frequent cough. Now, the man’s face was hollow, all his muscle tone was gone, and those eyes that once burned with the sun had all but lost their light. According to Kie, her husband couldn’t even walk more than a few steps outside without assistance.

An angry part of Shinjuro wished that he hadn’t come, so he could only remember his battle-brother in his prime.

“...It’s been too long.” Shinjuro finally said, sitting down on the porch next to Tanjuro.

“How is your family? Are Ruka and Kyojuro doing well?”

“...Ruka passed away several years ago. She did give me another son, Senjuro.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Still, I have no doubt that your sons’ are a credit to her memory.”

“Everything that’s good about them came from her.”

Tanjuro sighed. “You’ve always been so hard on yourself, old friend. You may be the eldest son, but you shouldn’t try to carry the world on your shoulders. We are all only human.”

“Some of us are,” Shinjuro muttered.

“Please, not this old argument again.” No matter how many times Tanjuro tried to assure him that there was nothing inherently superior about the breath of the Sun users, Shinjuro refused to hear it.

A young, miniature Tanjuro ran up to the two men. “Father, will you be okay with Hanko and your friend while I help Nezuko and Takeo with the wood?”

Tanjuro smiled at his son. “We will Tanjiro. But before you go, would you mind showing me your Hinokami Kagura? I want to make sure you’re practicing.”

Shinjuro gasped and turned to his friend.

Tanjiro, for his part, looked unsure and cast a glance in Shinjuro’s direction.

“It’s fine,” Tanjuro assured his boy. “Shinjuro is an old friend, he’s seen me do that dance many times.”

This was apparently enough for the boy, who nodded, ran off to the edge of the clearing, and picked up a stick to serve as a substitute for the blade.

“So, at least the legacy of Sun breathing will continue on.” Shinjuro muttered.

Tanjuro only grunted.

Tanjiro moved through the set styles hesitantly, with shaking arms and unsteady feet. Still, Shinjuro could already tell that the boy would master it eventually. He may not be at the level of his father, but that boy would surpass anything Kyojuro could accomplish in no time.He was surely blessed by the Kami.

“That boy will be a great demon slayer someday.”

“No.”

The response was so sudden and unusually fierce that Shinjuro originally didn’t realize that it was Tanjuro speaking. “What do you mean?”

“Tanjiro won’t be a demon slayer. I want him to live a peaceful life, unconcerned with those tragedies. I want all my children to live long, simple lives.”

“You can’t be that naive!” Shinjuro shouted. “That boy has the mark!”

“You’re wrong. That scar on Tanjiro’s forehead is from when he saved his younger brother. Besides, I doubt that even I have the mark you are looking for. If what the records say is true, those around me should have achieved the mark as well, and none of you did. I for one, am glad for that. You’ve passed the age of 25 already, and I’d hate for you to not see your sons grow up.” At the end of his speech, Tanjuro’s voice broke into coughs.

Tanjiro noticed his father’s state and ran up to them. “Father! Don’t exert yourself!”

Shinjuro stood up. He looked down at his old friend, his battle-brother, the man he admired most, and was disgusted. The Sun Hashira was reduced to an invalid, and his chosen successor had the temperament of a nursemaid instead of a warrior. It was pathetic.

“Coming here was a mistake.” Shinjuro said. “I’ll take my leave now.”

He would eventually regret that those were the last words he said to his old friend

--------------------------------------------------

Unknown to Shinjuro, his visit did have an effect on Tanjuro Kamado. That night, he pulled his eldest son aside and showed him a Nichirin blade.

Tanjiro’s eyes sparkled in wonder at the blade. “Father, are we from a family of Samurai?”

Tanjuro chuckled. “No, nothing like that. You may see this as a family heirloom, but it was only forged in my generation. We are a family of charcoal-sellers, after all.”

Tanjiro nodded. He looked a little disappointed, but he was a child of the new Era and didn’t need to worry about legacies from the Edo period.

“Tanjiro, as you are the oldest son you will probably inherit this house once your mother and I have passed on. You will have a new family to care for, and will continue our traditions. However, if the day should ever come when you or your descendants need to leave this place and face great danger, I ask that you please take this sword with you. It is strong and sharp, and you can protect yourself and others with it.”

Tanjiro would remember these words before he left for Mt. Sagiri with his sister, and would carry it to Urokodaki’s house though it never occurred to him to unsheath the blade.

---------------------------------------------------

Several years later, Kyojuro came home and announced that he was the new Flame Hashira. Like that was any great accomplishment. Shijuro became frustrated with his sons, downed another bottle of sake, and decided to do the stupid thing and visit Tanjuro again.

This time, he remembered the way and didn’t need to stop by the village. If he had, he might have noticed how sad they were at the mention of Kamado and might have learned the truth earlier.

Instead, he made it all the way to that little house on the mountain before he saw the graves.

All he could do was pay his respects. Someone had already cleaned the house, but based on the broken door and family history Shinjuro could easily guess how they’d died.

The whole time he stood there, one question ran through his mind: What could I have done to prevent this?

----------------------------------------------

“Kyojuro said you wanted to speak with me?”

Shinjuro turned to look at the young man in his presence. The current Water Hashira, Giyu Tomioka, was not an intimidating man. His skills were certainly a testament to Urokodaki’s tutelage, and he may have somewhat surpassed his old master, but he was like water. Calm and unemotional, but ready to flow through the path of least resistance.

He certainly did not have the skills to combat someone even a Sun breath user couldn’t defeat.

“I have an old friend who lives in your domain…” Shinjuro described the path of the Kamado household, or at least what was left of it. “...I recently went to visit him, but I found only an empty house and buried graves. I suspect they were killed by a demon. Did you ever run into any demons in that area?”

Tomioka stood there silently for about a minute. Shinjuro got frustrated and started to get up and leave. If the man didn’t know who he was talking about, then there was no point in talking to Tomioka any more.

“...Kamado. That is your friend’s name, isn’t it?”

Shinjuro froze in a half-kneeling position. “Yes.”

“I remember them. It was a little over a year ago now. I received a notice that there was a strong demon in the area, but by the time I got there everyone in the house was already dead. I’m sorry. If I had made it there half a day earlier, I might have been able to save them.”

Shinjuro leaned back again. He couldn’t bear to think that the legacy of Sun breathing was truely dead. He certainly couldn’t bear to think of Tanjuro’s children being brutally massacred. Still, he couldn’t blame the Water Hashira for this.

Tanjuro’s words rang in his head. We're all only human.

“You’re only human. It can’t be helped.”

“...You should know that one of them escaped unharmed. The oldest son was staying in another house that night and wasn’t attacked.”

Shinjuro sat up at that. “The eldest is alive? Tanjiro, right?”

Tomioka nodded. “He had a strong will and showed great battle instincts, so I sent him to my old master Urokodaki to be trained. I suspect my master wouldn’t send him to Final Selection this early, so he’s likely still there if you want to learn more about what happened to your friend.

“... I guess I’ll have to visit Mt. Sagiri.” Somehow, he doubted Urokodaki would know who he was working with, even if he’d been acquaintances with Tanjuro.

--------------------------------

The hike to Mt. Sagiri was hell on Shinjuro’s gout-ridden joints. He was getting too old for all this traveling. Still, he owed it to Tanjuro to check on his son’s progress, and he wouldn’t be able to rest until he was sure Sun breathing was being used again.

When he finally reached that little house at the base of the mountain, the only one waiting for him was Urokodaki.

“Giyu sent a letter after you spoke with him, Rengoku. I suspected you’d come eventually.”

Shinjuro snorted at that and sat down on the floor. “Have you got anything to drink?”

“No, unless you’re referring to tea. Why are you concerned with Tanjiro Kamado?”

“You may be an idiot, but your not that blind or dumb. His name is Kamado.” Shinjuro sighed. “He’s the son of our Tanjuro.”

“And what does the identity of that boy’s father have to do with anything?”

Shinjuro balked. There were no words for how stupid Urokodaki was acting, so he just glared.

Urokodaki sighed. “You know, when I finally realized where I’d seen those hanafuda earrings before I was tempted to send for you. You were Tanjuro’s best friend and should have been the one to guide his son. Now, I’m glad I didn’t. Kuwajima at least took a moment to mourn our old friend before asking if I thought Tanjiro would survive final selection.”

This infuriated Shinjuro. “Who do you think -- “

“Urokodaki-san!” a young voice called out from beyond the doorway. “It’s getting dark. Is dinner…” He froze when he caught sight of Shinjuro.

“Tanjiro-kun, this is an old friend of mine, Shinjuro Rengoku.” Urokodaki said. “Please forgive his intrusion.”

“You… I remember you.” Tanjiro said. “You came to visit father years ago. How do you… how do you know both my father and Urokodaki-san?”

“Hm.” Shinjuro grunted. “I heard about what happened to your family. You have my sympathies.”

“Ah, thank you.” Tanjiro finally entered the hut and sat down.

Shinjuro scrutinized the boy critically. He had grown a great deal in the last few years, and had finally developed some muscle tone. It seems Urokodaki’s training was good for something at least. Tanjiro had also lost his child-like innocence. There was steel in his soul, and he had the eyes of a warrior. Just like Tanjuro used to.

“Tell me boy, do you remember your father’s Sun Breathing?”

Urokodaki sighed in exasperation.

“Sun… breathing?” Tanjiro looked at the other two men in confusion.

“Come on, I saw you do it when I last visited your father.” Shinjuro waved his hand. “He said his usual nonsense about it being a prayer to the gods again…”

“Are you talking about the Hinokami Kagura?” Tanjiro asked. “Are you saying… that it’s actually a sword style?”

Both Urokodaki and Shinjuro stared at the boy in shock.

Shinjuro recovered first. “Yes exactly.”

“But… father never mentioned…”

“Tanjuro retired from the demon slayer corps before you or your siblings were born.” Urokodaki said. “I imagine he didn’t want to pressure you to follow a path he knew was fraught with danger and would lead to an early grave.”

Shinjuro rolled his eyes. “Fat lot of good that did him.”

“Don’t talk about my father like that!”

Even Urokodaki was surprised by Tanjiro’s outburst.

“All my life, Father had a frail body. By the end, he couldn’t walk on his own and could barely get out of bed. Still, he took care of us the best he could. And every new year without fail he’d dance from sunset to sunrise nonstop! So don’t disrespect him!”

Shinjuro was shocked to notice that Tanjiro was starting to cry.

“Father… father had passed away several months before the attack. I wasn’t there, I was peacefully sleeping in another house while my family was being brutally murdered. Still, despite my own regrets, I know that the only person responsible for their death is Muzan Kibutsuji! That’s why I decided byself to become a demon slayer! For their sake!”

Tanjiro was standing up by the end, breathing heavily.

All three occupants stared at one another for a long while, before Urokodaki finally broke the tension. “Rengoku, it’s dark out so I’ll let you stay the night, but you should leave tomorrow morning.”

Shinjuro scowled. “Yeah. I can see that I’m not wanted.”

-----------------------------------------------

That night, while Shinjuro slept in a spare room and didn’t wonder about the closed door nearby, Tanjiro spoke to Urokodaki about his father. For the first time in his life, he learned about how great of a swordsman Tanjuro Kamado had been. How he had risen to the rank of Hashira and killed hundreds of demons in his short tenure with the corps. How he was the man both Urokodaki and Shinjuro admired most.

When Tanjiro finally remembered his father’s sword, he asked for permission to train with it. Urokodaki granted it without a second thought, though he knew the requirements for breath of water sword was slightly different from breath of sun.

“Urokodaki-san, did my father ever battle Muzan directly?”

“No. None of the demon slayers have even seen him in centuries. But, if there was anyone who had a chance, it would have been your father. He slayed 4 different lower moons over the course of his career, and even battled against Upper Moon 3 and survived until they fled with the sunrise.”

----------------------------------------

Right after that night, Tanjiro started training to use the Hinokami Kagura beside his breath of water. It was difficult, especially since the spirits of dead children could only help with the breath of water, but he was able to split the largest boulder within a month, half a year earlier than he needed to qualify for the next Final selection.

Tanjiro would feel guilty about getting a new Nichirin blade after final selection when his father’s was perfectly adequate, but when Haganezuka-san was so excited to see how the blade would change color Tanjiro decided to use it for a while. At least, until it broke at Mt. Natagumo and he felt better just asking one of the swordsmiths to sharpen the older blade.

-------------------------------------------

“Come Father! Come meet my three new tsugukos!”

Kyojuro was as loud as ever. Subtlety was never the boy’s strong suite, and bursting his eardrums years ago hadn’t helped matters. At this point, talking with his son was exhausting for Shinjuro.

“What makes you think you have anything to teach these tsugukos? I heard about your last mission. You’re now blind in one eye!” Shinjuro grumbled.

Two new voices rang through the Fire estate.

“WHAAA---”

“Oi! What are you saying about Rengacho? I’ll fight you!”

The most striking interruption though was a streak of red that rammed into the back of his head.

“Don’t belittle Rengoku-san!”

Shinjuro rolled off the porch and into the garden, finally landing on his back. The blinding high-noon sun didn’t help his hangover and budding concussion. It was almost a relief when a figure blocked the light, until he realized who that red hair and dangling earrings belonged to.

“Flame Hashira Kyojuro Rengoku is a magnificent swordsman! He protected five train cars by himself when we were fighting the Lower Moon One! When that was done, he immediately fought with Upper Moon Three and survived! Sure he lost one eye in the battle, but that hasn’t diminished his fighting spirit!” shouted Tanjiro Kamado.

Shinjuro couldn’t do much more than blink. “... Kamado? Is that you?”

Tanjiro turned away and bowed towards Kyojuro. “Kyojuro-san, please forgive me for being so disrespectful to your father. However, I couldn’t stand by and let this man who claims to admire my father speak so ill of you.”

“Ha! That is no problem, it’s about time someone gave him a good head-but.” Kyojuro laughed. “I only hope your head isn’t hurt too bad as a result.”

“Nope! I have a very thick skull!”

“Ha ha! Oh, you mentioned your father, Tanjiro-kun. Is that who you learned Sun-breathing from?”

Tanjiro nodded. “Yes. I always knew it as the Hinokami Kagura, but after I started training with Urokodaki-san this man came by and mentioned that my father used sun breathing, and I started to incorporate it into my sword style as well.”

“I see. My father frequently mentioned his old friend who practiced sun breathing, but I never had the pleasure to meet him. Still, this is wonderful! Perhaps your ancestry is responsible for your sister’s unique condition.”

“That’s what Urokodaki said as well!”

As Tanjiro and Kyojuro laughed and talked, Shinjuro couldn’t do much more than sit up and look at them. Ignoring the blonde and boar-head in the background, the sight before him was like a blast from the past. Kyojuro and Tanjiro, they were just like Shinjuro and Tanjuro, only better and more at ease.

Kamado, old friend, it seems our sons have surpassed us both.

---------------------------------

Taisho Secret: Giyu took so long to respond to Shinjuro when they were talking about the Kamado family because he wasn’t sure if he should mention Nezuko. In the end, he decided to keep quiet and leave it to Tanjiro to decide. Between this and Rengoku stubbornness, Shinjuro didn’t find out about her until after that last scene.

Note: I‘m not quite sure what butterfly effect would have led to Kyojuro surviving in this AU. Either Tanjiro handled the upper moon one easier and was still in shape to help with the fight or Akaza took one look at Tanjiro, had flashbacks to fighting his father, and ran the hell out of there as fast as he could. It was probably a combination of both.

[ficforce]

Strong For Me

Sagamiya Konro x Reader

SFW

Set during the great fire in Asakusa

Established relationship

Watching Company 4 roll in on their metal vehicles and dousing the last of the dying flames filled Y/N with more anger than she thought she could bear. They came in like triumphant heroes but where had they been when the fires were roaring and their people were turning into Infernals?

Nowhere.

It had been the Hikeshi running through the town fighting fires and saving anyone they could, it had been regular people throwing endless buckets of water in an effort to save their houses and many of the people who had an ability to control flames were exhausted. She shoved past one of the Fire soldiers as they tried to direct her elsewhere, drawing Konro’s sword on them when the man tried to grab her - she was quickly left alone.

The sword had been given to her before Konro ran off with Benimaru; he had told her to use it to protect herself whilst he was away from her side. The weapon was one of the most precious things he owned and by giving it to her he was telling her he was going to come back.

Only… he hadn’t come back to her yet.

Y/N stepped out of the way as the Captain of the 4th Company headed up the street, glaring at him as he passed but then she heard Benimaru’s voice from a short distance away, “Beni!” Running hurt her possibly broken ribs but it was hardly on her mind as she spotted Konro propped up against a building, “Konro! Konro you’re o… okay?” Dropping to her knees on the side Benimaru wasn’t she reached out to cup his face, turning it a little to properly look at the slash across his nose, “That’s gonna scar but you’ll still be handsome.” Konro tried to smile at her gentle teasing though it came out as more of a grimace and Y/N finally seemed to notice that his skin was smoking.

Her eyes widened once they saw the burnt and still burning flesh over his shoulders, his arms and his neck, “This…” it wasn’t a normal burn, it wasn’t even the kind of burn that someone with fire resistance skin could get in extreme cases - it was burning from the inside out. Inside some of the wounds, she could see what looked like embers and she realised what he had done. “Konro… you… you didn’t have to go so damn hard! What did you do?!” Hearing her voice too loud and almost shrill she covered it with her hands and tried to fight off her tears. Through her blurry vision, she saw him try to lift his arms to hold her but it seemed it was either too painful or they were too damaged.

“I’ll be okay, Y/N.” Konro grit his teeth as a spike of pain shot through his shoulders again, “Just be strong for me.”

x - -

The town was abnormally quiet, even though two days had passed they were still finding their dead and trying to figure out who combusted and who died from some other cause. Asakusa had always been quick to pick itself up and go about its day but this was something different. The fires had destroyed most of the buildings, the Guardhouse was overfull with the homeless even though everyone with a house left were taking in as many as they could - many were frightened that another Demon might appear and Konro wouldn’t be able to beat it this time.

She had been handing out food and blankets to those who needed them when she came across the massive crater Konro had scarred into the land.

It was terrifying to see.

Not only because of what a full-powered Akatsuki could do. Not because it marked where something as catastrophic as a Demon had appeared either. It was where Konro had been willing to sacrifice everything for his Town. Her lover had gone as far as knocking Benimaru out in order to take the Demon on - not because Benimaru couldn’t have handled it but because Konro wanted to make sure someone who loved and could fight for Asakusa as much as him survived.

She could have lost him completely…

Konro had led as many able-bodied men as he could with Benimaru to protect what they could. The crater in front of her didn’t feel real, it felt like if she stepped forward it would dissipate like some sort of mirage. “Y/N,” a thick coat was wrapped around her shoulders as Benimaru came to stand next to her, worry laced his voice as he forced the woman to stand back a little. “You’ll fall in.” He didn’t say anything more as she pulled the coat closer to her body and pressed her face into the material, it was Konro’s coat, it smelt of him - like he did before all of the medicines and charred skin. “I’ll take care of giving the rest of this stuff out. Konro’s asking for you…” What he actually meant was that Konro was in agony and was calling for her.

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes were a little wider than usual and she was trying to smile at him in the same reassuring way she always did. Her hand reached for his hair and she brushed it back a little, stroking her thumb over the bruise on his temple, “Y/N… I’m sorry. I should have done more. I should have been stronger.”

“Y/N…” Konro whispered and tried to reach for her face, wanting to wipe away the stray tear she was trying to ignore - it was agony. His jaw tensed as he tried to clamp down on the pained sounds wanting to escape as he tried to force shredded muscle to work.

Y/N shook her head, “He buried you, Beni… he would have broken your arms and legs if it would have protected you. There was nothing you could have done.” The young man was never going to forgive himself for not being there for Konro, she could see he was already blaming himself and wouldn’t listen to reason. Konro had explained to her how Benimaru had been at his limit, how he had been overheating and for him to be shoved aside so easily further proved that Konro had done right by him.

“…He’s calling for you, Y/N.” He took the supplied from her and headed for the next household that needed help.

Konro appeared to be asleep when she entered the room, the doctor glanced her way before hanging up another IV of who knew what inside, she didn’t care as long as it helped him. There was a large bowl with pinkish water and bloodied bandages soaking inside, shredded packets of medical patches, discarded cooling blankets designed for someone overheating… the room was a mess. The medical rooms were already taken up by the injured so they had moved him to his own room to recover and avoid infections.

“How’s he doing?”

“We’re sedating him as much as we can without killing him, Y/N.” The doctor sighed and began gathering the supplies they’d strewn out of the floor, “It’s tephrosis, his skin is carbonising and the lack of oxygen to his muscles has caused tears all over, he’s got limited mobility in his arms and the muscle around his shoulder blades will take months to heal… if it does.”

Neither spoke as Y/N let that sink in. If Konro couldn’t fight anymore… Strong men were respected in Asakusa, no one challenged the authority of the Hikeshi because it was led by the strongest. Technically, Benimaru was the strongest in a fight but he didn’t have the confidence to lead - someone could easily chip away at his resolve or Benimaru could lose his temper and go too far.

“It’ll heal, he’s stubborn.” The doctor gave her a weak smile and Y/N bit the tip of her tongue, waiting for more bad news.

“His lungs are shot.” There was no gentle way to tell her, “He’s going to be more prone to pneumonia and it won’t be easy for him to fight through it. If he uses his ability excessively not only will it be excruciatingly painful but it will impact his breathing and… the tephrosis could spread.”

It was difficult to imagine what Konro was going through physically and mentally. He wouldn’t regret risking it all for Asakusa but she knew this would be difficult for him. Y/N stood in the doorway with her hands balled up in the material of Konro’s coat, she took in his prone form as if that was going to make her understand how to deal with this. There were cooling blankets beneath him to help fight the inferno beneath his skin, he was pale and even from across the room she could see his skin was clammy as the heat seemed to pour out of him - when was it going to burn itself out?

They hadn’t bandaged his wounds yet, hoping that the air would aid in the healing.

As silently as she could she made her way to his side after the doctor had left, she knelt beside him and reached out to brush the hair from his sweaty forehead, “Y/N?” She nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she saw his eyes flutter open weakly, he looked exhausted and her own eyes watered as she saw how much pain was reflected in his. He was doing his best to hide that from her.

“I’m here, Konro,” Y/N leaned down to place a gentle kiss on his lips, “What do you need?” She had never seen him down like this, she had never seen him looking so… weak. He was supposed to be a strong man, he was Asakusa’s protector and now they were saying he would never fight again. Benimaru was torn up inside with guilt. Asakusa was in ashes and its people had lost their usual fighting spirit. “Do you need some water? Or… I can make you something to eat - I c-could…” Her voice got stuck in her throat, the lump that had been forming all morning finally grew too big and she nearly choked on a sob.

“Stop!” She grabbed his hand and lowered it to his side, keeping hold of his hand in both hers, “Please don’t.” Even with her voice breaking she still tried to smile for him, “Don’t hurt yourself anymore, Konro… please.” Y/N could hardly breathe anymore, she pressed her forehead down to his and forced the sadness back - she needed to be strong - “You’ve done enough. You don’t have to give anymore.”

He was the man everyone went to for help or advice, he was the one who brought Benimaru under his wing after the Master had died and kept him on the right track. He gave and gave and gave…

Konro let out a shuddering breath, his lungs ached and he began to cough, every single jolt to his body hurt worse than the previous and he couldn’t repress the pained gasps this time. “It’s okay, Konro, I’m here, I’m gonna look after you.”

x - -

“Building was completed this morning, every house has the bare necessities, schools are open, the market  is trading as fairly as they can and we have a few new recruits training to join the Hikeshi by the end of the month.” Benimaru let out a small sigh as he finished his report whilst trying to learn how to treat Konro’s wounds. He wanted to help in any way he could and somehow, being able to properly treat Konro made him feel somewhat better.

“Three months to rebuild the Town?” Konro mused, “Was it supplies or labour?”

“Labour. Builders worked flat out but most of them were laid up till recently.”

Y/N listened quietly as they spoke, occasionally she would explain to Benimaru what she was doing but it was good to have the young man there to distract Konro. Months had passed but he was still in a great deal of pain, still burning on the inside but the Haijima patches seemed to help prevent the spread and provide some pain relief - she just wished it was something they could replicate so they didn’t need to rely on the Empire. She heard the pained hitches in Konro’s breathing and sometimes he would stop mid-sentence when it got too much. Sometimes it was enough to bring Konro to tears and he was hiding it the best he could to protect Benimaru and Y/N.

“H-how are the twins?”

Benimaru handed Y/N more bandage as she started to wrap Konro, “They’re assholes… they’re gonna come by later and tell you a bunch of lies about me - anything they say is a lie and if it’s not they deserved it.”

“…If Y/N and I ever have kids you’re not allowed to babysit.”

Benimaru snorted and gathered up the medical supplies to toss out, “That’s fine with me.” He stood up and headed towards the door, “Though I doubt any kid of yours would be as mean as two little girls on a sugar kick.” Not a moment after the door had slid shut, Y/N and Konro heard a crash and two little voices mocking Benimaru - it was followed shortly by their squeals and the sound of a nearly grown man chasing two little girls.

Y/N laughed at the noise and for a moment it felt like old times.

Life was slowly returning to Asakusa, it wasn’t surprising really, they were a resilient bunch. “We’re all done for today,” She kissed his heavily bandaged shoulder and rested a cooling blanket over the top, “Ready to eat?”

Konro winced as he turned his head to kiss her temple whilst she rested lightly on his shoulder, “Not really but you won’t take that as an answer, right?”

“Nope,” Y/N had been keeping his meal warm to the side and picked it up as she moved to sit just beside him, more than ready to feed him as she had for the last few weeks, “Konro…” he gave a hum in response, recognising in her tone there was going to be something he might not like. “I know you said you wanted to do it but let me put your sword on its stand…”

Since the day of the great fire his sword had sat in the corner of the room against the wall, she had made sure to clean it but he had told her he wanted to put it back. It was like a target he had set for himself, that if he could pick it up and place it on the stand on top of the dresser, it would prove something. It felt like such a sad thing to see it neglected and thrown aside - Konro had saved up and worked so hard to have it made.

Konro shook his head, “Be a little more patient with me, Y/N… besides, look,” There was a little more light in his eyes and he slowly reached out and took the chopsticks from the tray, “I’ll be feeding myself in no time!” he opened and closed the utensils and Y/N smiled back at him.

“Okay, that’s pretty impressive.” It was a good sign, it meant that he was healing and a part of her was relieved - being strong all the time, keeping his mood up and helping where she could was exhausting. Konro wasn’t a burden to her, she loved him and even if she ha to feed their whole life she would. She wondered how he managed. “You’ll be lifting your sword in no time then?”

“Yeah.” He parted his lips as she fed him a mouthful of rice.

Whilst he chewed Y/N bit her bottom lip a little nervously, “A-and then you’ll lift me up next?”

“Carrying you around is one of my favourite things, Y/N” She brushed a piece of rice from the corner of his lip where she had seemed distracted and missed. “What other challenges have you got for me?

Y/N hesitated before placing the bowl down and she reached for one of his hands, carefully bringing it to her belly, doing her best not to pull at him, “Do you think that in six months time… you could lift our baby?”

“…W…?” Konro’s eyes widened and he stared at her in shock, his mind turning over what she had said and as it began to slowly sink in, a smile a much brighter than any he had had since the fire spread across his face. “You…” Unable to think properly, he moved forward and wrapped his arms around her as best he could, it hurt like hell and she was going to yell at him but he didn’t care in that small, hopeful, moment, “I’ll be strong enough for you both.”

[theharellan]

Who Am I in Your Arms?

Written for Stories of Thedas Volume II Pairing: NB!Lavellan x Solas Prompt: Hair

In the aftermath of Wisdom's passing Solas takes the first steps towards moving on from its death, though this time he need not do it alone.

Trigger warning for suicidal ideation and depression / derealisation.

Read on AO3.

Light strains through the open window, highlighting the dust suspended in the air by the morning breeze. With each sigh of wind from the mountains’ peaks it rises anew, kept aloft in perpetuity each time it begins to sink to the bedroom floor. Solas watches from his back as the light that flows through open windows grows longer, reluctant to acknowledge the fast-approaching noon and all the duty that comes with it.

He does not truly know how long he lies there, looking idly up at the ceiling, neither dreaming nor truly awake. From a distance he recognises the sound of Mother Giselle calling to a Chantry Sister and sees the shadow of a passer-by darken the window momentarily, but these notes are brief and fleeting, skirting over his consciousness without room to take root. The doorknob turns, latch unhooking with a click, force of habit compelling him to look. His eyes meet Ian’s as the door swings ajar, and he suddenly wishes he had at least sat up before he’d entered. “You’re awake,” Ian says. Relief quiets the tension he held between his brow, a look too soft to be meant for him steals across his face as he settles beside him, the mattress sinking with a sigh beneath his weight. “I was afraid- I- I was—” As he fumbles with his words he struggles with removing a leather glove from his left hand, finding the thought only when the last finger was wrested from him. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Good.” His bare hand leans upon Solas’ cheek, touch cool and calming against his face.

“What time is it?”

“You’re needed nowhere for the moment,” Ian answers the more honest question on his behalf. “I just needed— I wanted to see if you were alright.”

It is an answer Solas isn’t certain he can give neither one way nor the other. He is of sound body and sound mind, and for many those two alone would be enough to suffice. “Thank you,” Solas mutters, having little to offer but his gratitude and an affectionate peck to his palm. Perhaps sensing the answer Solas is reluctant to give, Ian’s smile pinches, straining with concern. Guilt twinges in his gut, and he averts his eyes, penitent. “Ir abelas, Vhenan. I did not mean to worry you again.”

A soft laugh sighs through Ian’s lips, though it sounds sad to his ears. “You don’t need to be sorry, Solas. Not unless it helps.” He recognises the refrain as one oft-repeated to Ian, spoken in his own voice when Ian’s troubles wind too tightly around his heart. To hear it said to assuage his sorrows stings, no matter how much he may need to hear it. The hand at his cheek guides his gaze up, his hollow stare feeling all the more empty when beheld in Ian’s kind eyes. They scan from left to right, reading the expression on his face as though he’d opened up a well-loved book. A thumb scarred by gardener’s shears draws a smooth line across his cheekbone.

Ian’s hand glides around the side of his head, meeting resistance as his fingers cup the back delicately. “Your hair…” he says with a laugh in his breath, a hint of wonder colours his tone leaves Solas humbled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much of it before.” Fingertips idle along the nape of his neck, moving across the rough beginnings of an auburn hairline, but for Solas’ part his eyes remain transfixed upon Ian’s face. He memorises the way amusement works its way across his lips, until his teeth press down upon them, trying and failing to tamp down his growing grin. Hazel eyes fall suddenly to his and then away, pink shame heating his cheeks. “Sorry.”

Solas rises, detouring to brush his lips against Ian’s, which still bear the impression of his teeth. “You’ve no more to be sorry for than I,” he says, then as an afterthought grazes his hand over his head. A fine layer of hair has sprouted, coarse, like sharkskin against his palm. “And you are correct, it is long past time I shaved.”

“Oh, you— you’re… I thought-”

“That I intended to grow it out?” he finishes Ian’s thought, picking it up where he had dropped it. “No, and I suspect I won’t for some time.” He slides open the top drawer of his dresser and rifles through, not looking but feeling for his razor. Fingers brush against brittle dried herbs and crumpled notes too important to throw away yet irrelevant enough that he does not remember why they are here, rooting through the ephemera of his everyday life before they find what they seek.

“Typically my magic minimises the upkeep, but then…” He thinks back upon the last few weeks, how time bled together and one moment tripped into the next. Hardly a thimbleful of effort had been expended upon the simple day-to-days. “I suppose I have had other matters on my mind.”

Wisdom’s death still weighs heavily upon him. Though he had told the Inquisitor the powers which willed it into being still exist and there may again be a being who called itself Wisdom, it is a cold comfort. The moments they shared are now his alone to remember. In his grief he strains to recall every memory, summoning details of bygone ages, despair curling one cold finger around his heart as their edges begin to blur. Guilt bores into him as he tries to remember what face Wisdom wore the first time they met.

“Solas?” His hand must have lingered too long, his stillness speaking to a persistent pain he struggles to give voice, yet Ian hears it regardless. He releases the breath held captive in his lungs as Ian’s hand folds over his. Their scars align, matching together as alike rhymes in a poem might. “Would you like me to do it for you?” Solas doesn’t answer right away, mind too full of memories to fully feel the present, and in that silence Ian finds the time to doubt. “If you’d rather do it yourself…” he ventures. The hand over his squeezes affectionately, comfortingly.

“No,” he finds his voice. When he tears his sights away from their intertwined fingers, he discovers Ian’s gaze leveled with his own and offers him a thin smile. “No. I’d welcome the offer.”

Before he releases his grip on Solas, he pulls his knuckles to his lips, pressing them against the places where errant magic had marked him centuries ago. He feels the ghost of his affection as he pulls his hand back, thumb stroking the place where Ian kissed him to keep the memory alive upon his skin. “You should sit,” Ian says, motioning with his head towards the empty seat shoved in the corner of the room. It’s as near a command as Ian will ever give outside the Inquisition’s healing tents. “I can take care of everything.”

A simple sentiment, yet ambitious. His first instinct is to doubt, but not all the lessons from the past few weeks left bruises. Trust is a muscle that atrophies through disuse, stretching it again strains even on fairweather days, but he accommodates Ian’s command, sinking into the cushioned stool he works from on quiet evenings.

He watches in silence as Ian takes stock of his tools, hands touching each in succession until they are accounted for. As he pours water into a shallow dish Solas’ throat scratches, realising he had not had so much as a gulp of water since the night before. It is as refreshing on his head as it would be on his lips, however, spread by a wrung out towel across his scalp. Thin streams trickle down his neck and beneath his nightshirt, provoking shivers as they slide along the crevice of his spine.

“You’ve— there’s more here than I’m used to working with,” Ian says, hovering over the instruments at his disposal. “Do I use the oil before or after?”

“Before,” he answers, “I use the cream after.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ian nod then reach for a small vial with a glass stopper. He pours a pool no wider than the average silver crown into a cupped hand and spreads it carefully over the top of his head, working the oil into the skin of his scalp. A few deliberate strokes and his eyelids grow heavy, head tilting into the sensation. A small snort of amusement issues from Ian’s nose, but he says nothing. With fingers still slick with a thin coat of oil he rubs along his hairline, feathering coarse hair with his thumbs. It scratches pleasantly in his ears, and he muses to himself if he may be persuaded to keep it at this length, on the condition that it were afforded this attention every day.

It’s a disappointment, then, when his hands at last fall away, busying themselves with the soap. He scrapes a few shavings into a shallow bowl and tops it with water measured with his eyeballs, working with the confidence of someone who has done this before. “These steps are familiar to you,” he notes.

“The last thing any surgeon needs is to close a stray hair in an open wound,” he says, “or to let it cloud your view.”

“I suspected as much.” What faith Ian has in himself lies mostly in his duty, beyond the walls of the infirmary it is as unreliable as the wind, and about as difficult to catch.

“I haven’t… this is the first time I’ve shaved anyone’s head, though. It’s mostly legs, or arms, or beards— sometimes backs.” The thin layer of bubbles quickly stirs to a thick, soapy pillow which rises higher than the bowl it was concocted in. “I never knew how much hair humans had until the Blight.”

The conjured image of Blackwall’s scurrying naked through Skyhold comes to mind, the hair on his back as black as his beard, and he spares a small smile at the Warden’s expense.

He strokes the brush over his head, drawing small overlapping circles across the top of his skull. Foam snaps behind his ears, bubbles burst by the bristles as Ian passes over a second time, leaving no inch of stubble uncoated.

“I don’t… I- tell me if it hurts,” he says. Setting the brush aside, he reaches for the razor, examining the blade against the light for flaws before he’s satisfied, although he waits for an affirmative nod before he dares hold it against his scalp.

It glides smoothly beside his skin, flowing with the grain of his hair. The scraping sound is no less unpleasant as he recalls, but painless. Ian handles the blade with a surgeon’s precision. He watches him from the corner of a hand mirror laid on the desk, every so often his reflection vanishing to wash off the soap and hair built upon the razor’s edge. A look of concentration screws his expression, the boughs of Mythal’s blood bending across his brow. Not so serious as when he works, the faint impression of a smile turns the corners of his mouth. The same lips he ruminates upon the shape of in the pages of his journal, the same smile whose corners he dreamt of kissing. They click apart, and, recognising the beginning of a question upon them, something within Solas sits up straighter.

“How long have you kept it this way?”

Their eyes meet through their reflections. Ian pauses to allow Solas his answer, wiping away the excess of hair dirtying the blade in a discarded cloth. As a question it’s innocent enough, but pries at memories he’d sooner bury. Like too many answers, he’s forced to weigh his head against his heart before he speaks.

“Not as long as you might suspect.” Once it was as long as his memory, and in each thread laid a name, a lesson, a thought. With each tragedy he sheared it shorter, until at last he could bear it no more. “What time I spent on my hair I realised I’d prefer to spend elsewhere.” The lie does not come as easily as he would like, even if— as had all the ones which came before it— it lies rooted in truth. He feels it strain against the knife when he speaks, pressure mounting in his temple, as though daring him to continue with his deception. Ian is quick to retreat, murmuring a soft reminder not to speak when he’s cutting, though he can hardly hear it through the fog in his head.

His first waking breath in this world felt like a dagger between his ribs. He choked on reality itself as he stumbled from his dreams, hair dragging past his ankles, tangled with generations of birds’ nests and hollow around his ears. It should have echoed with the dirge of an empire, but instead there was nothing, and somehow that was worse. His first cut was clumsy, blood dripped down his temple and sank into the creases of his hands, but he persisted. Each time he cut himself upon the sharp edges of the world it felt like justice, even if in his heart he knew it could never be enough.

Ian wields it without malice. The same blade which a week ago might have carved a red necklace across his throat now glides harmlessly over his skin, guided by tender hands that could name all the world’s cruelty but acts with none.

He swallows, throat thick with sentiment he’d believed too numb to harm him. Every day affection like he has never known rises in him like a force of nature, blooming with all the strength of springtime. If some small part of him had ever laboured under the belief that indulging those feelings would abate them, it’s been proven the fool. He loves Ian more now than the day he felt love’s first stirrings behind his ribs, but it does not come by him gracefully.

Love sticks in his throat like his grief. Tears spring into his eyes, the image of Ian’s reflection in the mirror clouded by droplets suspended between his lashes. He holds his breath behind his teeth to keep himself steady, pressure building beneath his chest ‘til he has no choice but to release. The sour, sterile scent of soap coats his nostrils as he measures his breath, careful not to let it hitch. As he hears Ian pause to clean the blade, he turns his face to the corner of the room to disguise his expression in the moments their eyes might meet through the mirror.

Love spills onto his cheeks, hands balling the fabric of his trousers as the first drop splashes his knuckles. The blade’s touch is as soft as a kiss upon his skin, scraping off the shadows missed during their first pass over his skull, and then set aside.

Love sees his sorrow and pulls him back against his chest, narrow arms enveloping him in their embrace.

A high, shuddering inhale whistles through Solas’ nose and though he reaches for stillness, today he finds himself wanting. The world surges forth like the first snowmelt of spring in the wake of an overlong winter, and he can do nothing to curb its strength. He claps his hand against his mouth, too late to suffocate the sob that wracks his shoulders, too weak to stifle the guilt-ridden cry that chases it. Ugly tears stain his cheeks, wielded like weapons to pry undeserved sympathy from the hands of his beloved, despite the effort he’d put forth to quell them.

A kiss crowns his forehead, ignorant of the guilt his grief springs from. An apology hangs upon the tip of his tongue, begging to be voiced and denied its release, knowing in his heart any forgiveness granted will be unearned.

Perhaps Ian hears the intent in the strangled sound he makes, for he moves to assuage his worries. Another kiss adorns his brow as he kneels before him, occupying the space between his knees. With both hands he reaches up and cradles his face between his palms, tenderly swiping away the sorrow from his cheeks. Their eyes meet through the veil of his tears, Ian’s shining with their own sadness as they hold his gaze. When Wisdom was taken, he’d held him just as he does now, until Solas remembered how to coax the air back into his lungs. So much had changed since that morning, and yet so little. Ian looks at him with the same eyes and holds him with the same hands. It is a disquieting revelation, knowing his worth does not lessen the more he is known; all the rage and misery Ian witnessed in him these past few weeks hasn’t lessened the love in his eyes.

From that love a cruel hope springs, born in the part of him which dares entertain the truth. Dares to ask if Ian would show the same compassion to the elf who had woken a year and change ago and mistook the world for empty.

The thought twists in him like a knife, and his expression contorts. Whatever peace he’d found comes apart at the seams, eyes screwing shut as tears spring anew from their corners. He turns his cheek into Ian’s palm, shoulders shaking with the force of the sobs he denies himself. Fingertips bend, coaxing him closer, and he obliges, nesting himself in the crook of Ian’s neck. The scarf he buries his nose in smells like his pipe and he can still bask in the warmth of the sun upon the copper curls that whisper in his ear. The hands that cut the bitter memories from his skin hold him without abandon, squeezing as he begins to weep anew. Protracted sobs wrack his body until his lungs ache in his chest, but Ian’s grip never falters, never fails. In his arms he knows himself as never before.

The shadows in their room narrow as the midday sun passes over Skyhold and the dust in the air mingles with what little hair he’d had to his name, carried upwards by the slightest breeze beneath the doorframe. In the sweepings he sheds his grief and carries forward what remains: his duty, his regret, and his love.

[evehere]

I just wanted to say I am absolutely taken by your 2ha ficlet as well! I even started reading "The wife is first" per your recommendation, and every new chapter I read all I think about is "ooh, this would fit so well with ranwan, what an amazing idea!" I really can't wait to read the rest of what you have written, thanks for doing this

Hi! Omgsh, thanks so much for the nice! I felt that since people might not know the series this au is based in, they might not take an interest to it! I write for my own pleasure, but it feels good to post it and see some response.

I’m glad you’re enjoying QWS. It’s really a comfort novel, like, each chapter feels so warm and nice! I reread some chapters when I’m feeling in the mood for some comfort without the hurt part (／ω＼)  And the main characters are so similar as well, like JS is a bright boy on his way to take care of his hubby and JQ is the cold and aloof man who is like wtf every time JS does something for him. Besides, I really like the setting the author created for homosexual marriage.

I leave you here the main scene that was inspired in the novel, I hope you’ll like it!

Yearning willow masterpost ❤️

Mo Ran 2.0 (2)

Resurrection

Mo Ran snapped his eyes open.

Was he dead?

It was dark, a faint crimson undertone around him.

He was lying on something soft, something akin to a blanket covering him. He was warm and comfortable.

There was, however, had a faint pressure in his head, as a light hangover, and a frantic feeling in his chest, his heart beating hard and his breathing picking up. Did the spirits have the same sensations as the living? Mo Ran asked himself. Tentatively, he curled lightly his fingers. His fingers answered at his slightest order, with no difference to when he was alive.

Excruciatingly slow, Mo Ran moved his hand up his chest, and placed his hand over his heart.

It was beating.

Was he really dead? Or had Xue-bofu come up with something at the last moment, saving him? But he would swear that he had felt the knife in his neck, and the blood flowing out like a fountain.

Mo Ran glided his hand over the spot of his chest where the executioner had made the second cut. The skin was intact, no sign of a knife cut. Mo Ran frowned slightly, feeling that something was amiss.

His eyes were adjusting to the dark. Those were… curtains? Like a canopy?

As a thunderstruck, he realised what was amiss. He couldn’t feel his ribs. Instead, there was supple muscle under his hand, like he had before he entered the prison. In prison, the prolonged lack of food had led him to lose almost all muscle mass.

Startled, he sat on the bed. He felt… good, despite the headache. Better than he had in the last months. But it was more like… normal.

He was wearing a cosy night robe, partially open at his chest. Mo Ran opened his lapels, noticing dumbfounded that the blade scar he had got in a battle a couple of years before his imprisonment was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he had no injury other than some old scars. He was… intact. Whole.

Mo Ran was alive. Not just alive, but his body was in the state it was in several years back.

There was a huff of breath next to him.

Startled, Mo Ran looked to his side. A body lied next to him, with his back facing Mo Ran. There was another huff of breath as they stirred, apparently deep in sleep. They had long, silky hair extended over the pillow. He couldn’t determine if they were a man or a woman.

He was in a bed. Someone was lying next to him.

This wasn’t unknown to him. Quite the opposite, Mo Ran was very familiar with this setting. Also, he was recognising the place, his heart threatening to get out of his chest as his hand trembled from the force with which he clenched his night robe.

There was only one way to check it.

Putting a hand on the pillow to support himself, he reached over and peered at the face of the sleeping person next to him.

Rong Jiu.

Rong Jiu’s young, graceful face, with his tender and androgynous features.

They were lying in the canopy bed in Rong Jiu’s old rooms in his Nanping manor. He recognised now the crimson drapes with embroidered mandarin ducks. Now that he saw them again, the deep red colour still vibrant and new, he felt the same need to tear them down.

As he had before his imprisonment.

He threw another look at the man lying beside him, noticing the lovebites and the handprints on the skin that peeked out of the blankets. What’s more, there were fine rope marks on Rong Jiu’s wrists.

Weren’t those remarkably similar to his own handiwork!?

Mo Ran couldn’t bear to stay in there anymore, so he got up from the bed, letting the bed curtains fall closed. He was indeed in Rong Jiu’s old room, with the same red and gold decorations and rich fabrics with detailed embroidery. However, last year Mo Ran had made some renovations to make the room more spacious. The room looked as if he had never made them.

It was cold, and it was still dark outside, but he could see faint sun rays from the paper windows. The room was silent—not even birds were singing yet.

There was a mirror in a corner, and Mo Ran watched his own reflection.

Strong. Muscular. Tanned. Traits he lost when he was imprisoned. Yet the white hairs he had got when Chu Wanning got ill in prison had disappeared altogether.

Had he… had he gone back in time?

Mo Ran was confident that he had died at the execution grounds. But he had heard stories before. Stories of people who died under serious grievances, with the blessings of the gods, going back in time so they can start over with the knowledge of the future.

The realisation hit Mo Ran like a sack of stones, and he staggered, dizzy.

“Fuck!”

Gods hadn’t abandoned him after all. He had another opportunity.

Another opportunity.

His voice, however, finally rose the sleeping beauty resting in the bed.

“Hum… Houye… You woke up so early today.”

Mo Ran’s gaze was icy when he looked back at the man sitting up on the bed. Years ago, he had received Rong Jiu as a gift from Viscount Chang. He had liked him and took him in as a concubine. In the end, Rong Jiu proved to be an internal spy all along, and provided the court with more evidence of Mo Ran’s wrongdoings to expiate himself with good deeds. Viscount Chang had brought him back when Mo Ran was imprisoned and got himself some merits from the emperor.

How he had fallen for the tricks of this little vixen!

He had been so blind to find attractive an androgynous and seductive beauty like Rong Jiu. It was nothing like the beauty of his husband, his Wanning…

Chu Wanning. If Mo Ran was back, that meant that Chu Wanning was back too?

Rong Jiu noticed that Mo Ran looked gloomy and unwilling to talk to him, but merely thought that he might be in a foul mood.

“Houye, did you not sleep well last night? Did you have a bad dream?”

I died, moron. That’s a bad dream in its own right.

Since Mo Ran still showed no signs of talking or approaching him, Rong Jiu raised, draping a robe on his shoulders, and hugged him from behind.

Mo Ran fought his first instinct to shake the treacherous man from his back. He wanted nothing more than to shake him off and slap him until he vented his anger. Yet, for the time being, it would be best if he were careful and treated everyone as if they knew nothing—at least until he got more information about his own situation.

Besides, he should care about his marquis reputation, just in case. His reputation as an immoral who did anything he pleased was the reason people had been so ready to believe that Mo Ran had tried to dethrone the emperor in his past life.

In his past life, Chu Wanning used to advise him to be humbler and keep a low profile, but he hadn’t heeded his advice. Later, he’d realise the kindness behind his words.

“How about I ask servants to prepare breakfast for you? Congee and fried buns sound good?”

Finding himself unable to talk, Mo Ran simply nodded his head.

Rong Jiu called a servant and went on his well-practiced routine with Mo Ran, preparing boiling water and clean clothes. Mo Ran merely observed him. The man really hadn’t changed in the past years.

If everything was real, if Mo Ran was back in the past, then everything had yet to happen. Mo Ran had yet to lose his title and his estate, he had yet to die, and Chu Wanning… Chu Wanning was still alive. He could still fix things with him before it was too late.

Rong Jiu had been taken into the manor in his second year after his marriage with Chu Wanning, so he knew he was already married to him.

“What day is it?” Mo Ran asked Rong Jiu as he approached him with his thick outer robes in dark blue and lined with grey rabbit fur.

Judging by the cold, it was around winter, but that alone wasn’t enough information.

“Third day of the tenth month, houye. Today’s the beginning of the winter.”

“Dingyou year?” He guessed it should be around that time.

“Yes, houye,” Rong Jiu answered with a hint of amusement. “Did houye had too much to drink last night, that he has to ask about the year?”

Dingyou year. He was twenty-six years old, and he had been married to Chu Wanning for almost five years. He was back from his last big military campaign, earning the title of Taxian general from the emperor. The campaign had taken him barely a year and ended around… The Lantern Festival? Mo Ran remembered he had been back for that one. He had been back in Nanping-fu for almost a year then.

After his campaign against the north, everything had gone downhill. Mo Ran had been drunk on praises and riches, taking in five or six concubines every year, and allowing himself to do as he pleased. He had gotten into many fights, both private and in court, and he had estranged himself from the Xue family and Nangong Si.

He remembered how he had gone out of his way to make Chu Wanning miserable as well.

The servants brought in the breakfast and set the dishes on the table. Mo Ran took a seat on the low table and let Rong Jiu serve him a bowl of congee. He extended his hand to take the bowl and chopsticks, but Rong Jiu batted his hand away with a teasing gesture.

“I’ll serve houye his meal,” he said with a flirtatious smile.

Mo Ran merely stared at him, incapable to react at first. The wish to slap a few teeth out of that smile was so strong that Mo Ran almost acted on it. Then he remembered he should act normal, to avoid raising suspicion.

A slow, boyish smile appeared on his face, and opened his mouth when Rong Jiu approached the spoon to his lips. He used to fish out sputum from their prison’s meals, so no matter how disgusting he found to let the boy feed him, he had no trouble acting his role.

There were worse things.

He let the young man feed him three bowls and a half, alternating with bites of the fried pork buns, and then stopped him. It had been so long since he last had a full meal, that the need to finish every bit of food in sight was strong.

From what he remembered, he usually had two bowls of congee and a couple of buns for breakfast, but, in his mind, it had been half a year since he last ate to his heart content. His belly didn’t agree with him, feeling overstuffed, and Mo Ran stopped Rong Jiu before he got sick. He would get used to eating regularly again, he supposed.

He couldn’t help to scoff internally. Rong Jiu would give him whatever he asked, with no regard to what was actually good for him.

Mo Ran wanted nothing more than to ask about Chu Wanning (where was his husband?), but another manservant got into the room with his official robes, a heavy garment in deep purple and a tall, black hat.

Fuck. Of course, if he was back, he’d have to go to morning court.

“Take it away and call a doctor. I’m not feeling well,” he told the servant.

If he had to attend morning court, he should at least familiarise again with the current situation. To be safe, he should avoid it for a few days.

Rong Jiu looked at him with alarm.

“Why didn’t houye say anything earlier? Quick, go call a doctor!” Then he fretted around Mo Ran, pulling him to lie back in the bed.

Mo Ran batted Rong Jiu’s hands away—he was getting throughly fed up with Rong Jiu’s act, knowing that he fretted around him now, but news of his “illness” would spread to Viscount Chang before noon. Ignoring the look of incredulity in his concubine’s face, he wrote a leave of absence and gave it to the servant, telling him to take it to the palace.

“Tell the doctor to come to my office.”

He had no patience left to deal with Rong Jiu.

Nanping-fu was a siheyuan, a courtyard house, divided in a front courtyard and a backyard. The main door, Mo Ran’s office, guest parlour and the library were all in the front courtyard, open to guests, while everyone’s bedchambers, the family shrine, the kitchens, storage rooms and guest rooms were in the backyard.

All the chambers were arranged around an elegant inner garden in a square. The one positioned in the north stood among them as the main house, where was Mo Ran and Chu Wanning’s room.

The same room he had shared with Shi Mei. Mo Ran frowned, uncomfortable with the thought. He’d have to do something about it.

Mo Ran walked through the beautifully decorated pathways with slow, lingering steps. The last time he had seen the place, some servants had even turned the flowerpots upside down, some taking the valuable flowers and others taking the hand-carved pots.

On his way to his office, he passed the guest parlour. The mere sight of it brought bad memories to Mo Ran. It was there where he received the imperial edict ordering his imprisonment. With it, any woman in Nanping-fu could be enslaved and sold as a servant, and any man left in there was to be exiled. Though few fools were still there when the sentence reached it.

Fools like Chu Wanning, his stubborn husband.

“For his father’s past achievements, and his own contributions and military merits towards the empire, Chu Wanning, husband of the criminal Mo Ran, is granted a pardon. By the grace of the Son of Heaven, this marriage is rescinded. He is hereby allowed to return to his old post in the Censorate, retaining the goods he brought into the marriage!” The imperial eunuch had announced.

At the time, Mo Ran had thrown a hateful glance towards his husband. Had he stayed just to show off his pardon? Or did he stay to laugh at Mo Ran’s expenses? Or maybe it was both of them. At the time, it wouldn’t have surprised him; Mo Ran had made his life mission to make Chu Wanning’s life as uncomfortable as possible in the eight years they had been married.

Chu Wanning should be happy that the marriage was over.

That’s why the words Chu Wanning had said after kowtowing three times had utterly surprised him. His thin figure looked as if a strong current of wind could blow him away.

“I’m grateful for bixia’s magnanimous graces. But since this marriage was meant to unite the old and new nobility, nothing more would serve this purpose than letting the both of us get the same sentence as husbands. Husbands should be as of one body; we shall share both glory and failure.”

“What are you doing?” Mo Ran asked, absolutely bewildered. He was signing his own death sentence!

Chu Wanning hadn’t even looked at him, his head bowed to the floor—only the tips of his ears reddened as a sign of his fluster. Mo Ran’s eyes were red as well, his frustration and his pain long past the point of trying to fight for himself.

“I won’t leave Nanping-fu,” Chu Wanning had said.

At first, Mo Ran still thought it was a trick. That some imperial eunuch would come to the prison and announce that the joke was over and Chu Wanning could go and take back his post at the Censorate. But the imperial edict that came was instead that Chu Wanning was stripped of his titles and his possessions. Later, all doubts were erased when the prison guards interrogated him.

The need to see Chu Wanning was so enormous that Mo Ran could hardly breathe. It filled everything and grasped his heart, constricting it painfully. He had to see him and make sure… make sure that Chu Wanning was still alive. That this wasn’t a nightmare conjured by his dying mind, in which he came back to life only to find that Chu Wanning wasn’t there.

Or worse. A punishment set out by the hell judges, to let him live an eternal life in this nightmare.

A servant passed next to him carrying a basin of water, bowing to Mo Ran when he was a few steps away.

“Greetings, houye.”

“Hum,” Mo Ran said in all answer. The servant was about to go away, when he cleared his throat and asked off-handed, “where is furen?”

The servant merely looked at him, his eyes wide as plates. The fear pricked his heart hard, cold sweat forming on his back, and Mo Ran made a tight fist, waiting for an answer.

“F-furen?”

“Yes, where is he?” He asked, trying to conceal his anxiousness under his mask.

“H-he’s still kneeling in the shrine, houye, as you ordered him yesterday.”

Fuck.

***

Houye (侯爷): a respectful way to address a marquis (hou, 侯). It can be used by his spouse, concubines, servants, all those whose ranks are below him. People of his same rank and above may address him as “Mo-hou”.

Dingyou year （丁酉）: 34th year of the sexagenary cycle. It’s just a way to keep track of the time, because I don’t know in which emperor’s reign would this be based on XD

Nanping-fu (府): fu means “manor”. There was a distinction between what one could call their own house, and only nobles of certain level could call their homes “fu”. A lower level would be “zhai” 宅, while the higher level would be “gong” (宫，palace).

Furen (夫人): literally, “madam”. BUT, furen is made up of the characters 夫 (fu, husband) and 人 (ren, person). Being as nouns are only gendered because they’re historically tied to a certain gender, I think it’s fine to think that a furen can be a man, but in a position of deference towards their spouse.

***

If you liked it, please consider supporting me with a rb!

[chaosangel767]

Pyrrhic - Angst

Fandom: Ikemen Revolution

Prompt: Pyrrhic - A victory won at to great of a cost

Tw: Major Character deaths, Angst 

Word Count:1735

The air is bitter and cold matching the mood of the group of people gathered in front of the Civic Center. A large cloth is draped over a monument and the clouds are heavy. No one in the crowd is smiling, and while there are hundreds of people in the crowd, there is no cheerful sound, just hushed whispers. Three men mount the stage next to the cloth. The two Kings of Cradle and the record keeper, all dressed in formal wear. The little noise of the crowd dies away as the Record keeper starts to speak into the crystal mic. 

“Citizens of Cradle, today marks the day one year ago that 75 people gave their lives to protect Cradle from the shadows and ended the 500 years of fighting and bloodshed.” Blanc starts to open the ceremony, his voice solemn as he begins to speak, the two Kings on either side of him had lowered heads, grief from the day one year ago still fresh in their minds. 

“Today we remember these brave souls who risked everything they had to make sure that Cradle continued on. Today we remember Zero the Ace of Hearts, Fenrir Godspeed the Ace of Spades, Seth Hyde the 10 of Spades, Loki Genetta the Cheshire Cat, Alice the second…” There isn’t another sound in all of Cradle as Blanc rattles off the names of the 75 people that died, everyone’s head is bowed, the first row of the crowd is dedicated to the officers who fought, the deaths still fresh in their minds.  

The record Keeper stood in front of Cradle with an even voice and a calm demeanor, but he can still see the bloody aftermath the central quarter was in after the fight. The tower had figured out the plan at the last moment, and ambushed the unexpecting armies, a huge explosion went off injuring many of the citizens of Cradle and destroying a lot of the Central Quarter, Cradle’s famous inventor was still recovering. Blanc looks into the crowd where Oliver Knight was sitting, his face was scarred with the aftermath of the explosion and his arm had finally been released from its cast after months of trying to heal it.

Blanc looks over to where the King of Spades is standing, glancing down at the floor of the stage, pain and grief evident on his face. The image of a second explosion in the Forbidden forest fresh in his mind, Ray watches helplessly as Alice jumps in front of the armies with her kind smile and not an ounce of fear in her face. She managed to cast enough of a barrier over most of Cradle, negating the magic explosion and casting out the innate magic users in Cradle, saving their lives. The grieving King finally looks up, his gaze landing where his best friend and partner in crime would have sat, the vacant seat tears a hole in his heart. He looks down at his clasped hands, still seeing the blood that drenched his uniform. It should have been me. He quietly thought, remembering seeing the pain his best friend was in after taking the hit for his King. “Cradle needs you boss, it's not your time” Fenrir’s choked words and faint smile seared in the back of Ray’s head, his heart heavy as he remembered the fading magenta eyes. It wasn’t your time either buddy. You should be here causing chaos, it's hard to run Cradle without you. 

Ray shifts his gaze to his right, eyeing the second King of Cradle, the King of Hearts, who is standing tall, not a hint of emotion on his face, but under the cold mask there swirled a turbulence of regret, grief and anger. He gazes steadily across the crowd, thinking how only a few officers know the full scale of the war. The civilians only know that there was a group of terrorists and criminals who launched an attack on Cradle and that both armies and the sweet, caring Alice helped fight off the criminals, no one knew that the criminals were in fact the Magic tower, that is the secret the Army must bear alone. He should have been more careful and maybe the magic tower wouldn't have found out what was going on. He remembers the cruel smirk on Amon’s face as he made Lancelot watch the explosion from the tower, the way the smoke rose from the central quarter. Lancelot looks down at his hands, burns and scars covering his hands from where he lost control of his rage and collapsed the tower, taking the mad leader and disciples with him.  

Lancelot’s eyes drift from surveying the crowd to landing on his forever injured, but Faithful Queen. Jonah sat straight and proper as ever, not letting an ounce of shame fill him. The brave Queen had managed to find Lancelot and covered him from the explosion, costing him his legs, but saving his King. Jonah still acts like his usual self, only in the darkness of night does he let down his walls and reveal how frustrated he is, it is all his fault. He needed to save his King, he should have been there earlier and the tower wouldn’t have collapsed. Jonah meets the King's eyes and the two exchange a darkened gaze. 

The Jack of Hearts has jade eyes cast down to his belt where his fallen protege’s sword now lays. He runs his fingers along the hilt, not sure how to process the memories and pain he is feeling inside. The memory of his student taking the hit for him still makes his blood run cold. Taking one of his pristine white gloves off he runs his bare fingers against Zero’s blade, the cold metal does nothing to quell the aching in his heart. The gentle demon is no longer gentle, the kind smile he once wore no matter the situation now is a grim line on his face.  I should have told you how much I cared. I should have protected you more.

Next to the Jack of Hearts is the forever drunk medic, Kyle. His topaz eyes hold more sorrow, and everyday his heart grows a little heavier. He should have tried harder, if he was better at his job so many lives wouldn’t have been lost. He looks down at his hands, they should have been clean of bloodshed, but they hold more bloodshed than anyone in Cradle. He clenches his fists, turning over his hands and hiding them in his sleeves. I wasn’t good enough to save them, I am not worthy of saving anyone anymore. His eyes unfocused, he pulls a bottle from his pocket and takes a drink, the burning taste of alcohol slides down his throat and he hangs his head, still being haunted by the lifeless eyes of his friends. 

A man sits between the two armies, pain showing in his one eye. Harr Silver, the new leader of the Magic tower. Harr has barely spoken a word outside of Tower business since the fight. He was the one who gave Alice the crystals telling her it would help enhance her power, how was he going to know she would sacrifice herself? His eyes lower to the ground as he sees her body bathed in light, he should have known, her soul pure and selfless. He should have stopped her from absorbing the explosion. He looks down to the simple crystal around his neck, the crystal he gave her, the one she could have used to save herself, but instead she chose to save Cradle. The second crystal on his necklace belonged to his young apprentice, the one whose mischievous mismatched eyes he would never see again. He runs his fingers along the crystal, should he have helped them? If he helped them with the barrier maybe one of them would still be alive. 

Sirius the gentle Queen of Spades sits next to the quiet wizard and looks down still seeing the blood from the fallen Seth on his hands. If he had only been a few minutes faster, then Dalim wouldn’t have stabbed him in the back. Sirius clenches his hands and grits his jaw against the tears at hearing Seth's final strangled words apologizing for betraying the black army running over and over through his head. Sirius clenches his hand tighter, noticing the scars on his arm and seeing the invisible scar on his stomach from the fights, he looks up to the sky. Seth, I am so sorry, I should have been faster. 

Next to Sirius sits the quiet Jack of Spades, Luka. The shy and aloof Jack was now even more shy and aloof, he runs his unit and still cooks dinner, but he no longer seems to care about much else. He doesn’t enjoy cooking as much as he did when Alice was here to taste his food, her smile lighting up the kitchen as she helped him think up new recipes to try. Every night he still trains, his time asleep even less than before, his dreams plagued by the one he never said goodbye to, the one who should have been sent home. He can hear her words the night before the battle, when they argued about whether she should fight, the determination in her eyes as she demands to help. Cradle is my home now, I couldn’t possibly leave knowing you guys could get hurt. When you care about people it hurts to see them hurt. Luka fights back the tears escaping his vision, he traces the necklace in his hands, the one he gave her. He wasn’t strong enough when he needed to be and now she was gone. His amber gold eyes find their way up to the sky as he thinks of his friend now flying high. 30 days wasn’t enough time with you, eternity wouldn’t have been. 

 The 7 officers all look to the brand new memorial, to the names of the fallen. Cradle won, Cradle was safe, but the cost of the victory was high. The lives lost that day gave Cradle the ability to move on and live. The love paid the way for us remaining to love our families, laugh with our friends and spend our days doing what we loved. The war was won, Cradle was safe, but was the cost of victory worth it?

[gallickingun]

May I request a Praise kink! Dom! Mirio x Reader drabble that doesn't use Sunshine as a nickname? (My mom's name is Sunshine and I feel icky about being called it){I'm sorry if this breaks a rule in your ask system but I can't access them from mobile}

a/n: of course! i didn’t do as much size kink with this one and focused more on the praise. i hope you like it! 💕 also when did i become a mirio blog like damn this is so long lol 

tw: praise kink; soft dom!mirio; daddy kink (i’m sO SORRY I CAN’T HELP IT); sub!reader; fingering; oral; kinda a crybaby reader? idk if that’s a tw now, but i did want to just put it here!

ps, reminder that ~drabble requests~ are open! currently accepting for bnha, haikyuu, jujutsu kaisen, a:tla, & dragon ball!

“That’s it,” Mirio’s voice is like honey in your ears, dripping down your spine to pool in your stomach, settling hot and heavy against your insides. He kisses your cheek and leans back on his thighs to watch where his fingers have speared your cunt wide open, “That’s my girl, look at how pretty you are all laid out for me.”

He pauses, and then tilts his head, blue eyes swirling with something akin to frantic worry, “It is just for me, i’nnit baby?”

“Y-Yeah, yeah!” You squeeze your eyes shut so hard it pushes your tears from your ducts, and a moan is ripped from your lungs as his second knuckles push deeper into your swollen lips. When you get your bearings straight, and are able to look him in the eye again, your lower lip is wobbling but you manage to push more words out despite yourself, “J-Just for you, T-Toga-”

Mirio cuts your stuttering sentence short with a warm, firm kiss to your lips. His mouth is searing hot, and your noses bump when he presses too eagerly into you. Your jaw falls slack as his digits piston forward, thick and slick, and nearly rip another orgasm from your belly while his mouth is preoccupied with your bared neck.

You know that there will be dozens of marks littered across your body in the morning, but you don’t have the wherewithal to tell him to quit. Your skin is simmering with a wanton heat, insatiable in your need to have him closer, closer, closer. It’s concerning how no matter how many times he helps you fall apart, you’re still yearning for more. 

He huffs out a breath, releasing the cleft of skin he had captured between his teeth so he can look down at you - breathless and beautiful and begging, still - and that beautiful grin overtakes his features, stretching pink lips to bare beautiful pearlescent teeth. You reach a palm up out of instinct alone, a wobbly elbow barely able to hold you anything close to steady, “I-I love you, Togata, I l-love, I love you.”

Mirio tils his head so he can kiss you on the wrist. Your pulse point stutters underneath his mouth and he revels in the knowledge that only he has the capability to wear you down in such a way that has you pleading for another piece of his soul, as if yours might not be whole without him there to fill the gaps. He sighs, warm breath spilling down the length of your forearm and driving a shiver up your spine.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” his voice is gravelly, like it hurts to push out the words, but he repeats them regardless, this time looking into your glassy eyes so you know he’s telling you the truth. He smiles again, turning so his cheek is pressed fully into your palm, “You’re doing so good, such a good girl. You think you’re ready for me, now?”

The nodding of your head is a mix of frantic and eager, your pupils blown wide as your mouth parts out of lascivious desire alone. His expression softens at your fervor, dimples fading as he shifts his hips so he’s positioned between your knees. Mirio’s knuckles slowly drag out of you, scissored slightly so your precious walls will not be fooled into thinking the onslaught is over. No, it has only just begun; Mirio does nothing in small measures, including the heft that is sported between his hips.

Your little hand reaches forward out of pure need and you can barely wrap your digits around him fully, but that does not stop you from trying. He hums out a laugh that sounds curiously like fondness, and then kisses your knee, pushing it further away so your cunt is butterflied open, lips slightly parted so he can see the depths of your body for himself. You grunt, bent forward at an odd angle so you can watch the sanguine cockhead bulge under your ministrations. Mirio’s chest shakes with a moan, eyelids threatening to slip closed when he feels your soft palm envelope his shaft.

“P-Princess,” he rests his forehead against your knee, hiding his sapphire irises from your gaze. You love the way the nickname tumbles from his lips, so you push the pillow under your shoulder blades to aid in your actions of leaning forward so you can wrap both hands around his dick, thumbing at the veins and the darkened shaft, watching closely as the pre drools from his tip. You lick your lips and Mirio watches your pinkened tongue part your teeth to expose itself and your intentions.

“Please?” you beg, eyes wide and fingers needy. You tongue the air in front of you, the tip of your muscle pointed with the way you flex it, “W-Wanna be good for you, make you feel good!”

His canine tooth catches the corner of his mouth, a flash of pain shown in his bright eyes, but it subsides when he sees how badly you want to prove to him that you could devour him whole if only he’d give you the chance.

“You’re being so good,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to kiss you on the mouth, thumb finding your clit as he sandwiches his thick forearm between your torsos. You mewl, kicking your feet at the newfound jolts of pleasure making their way up your body with each circling of the pad of his finger against that sweet, soft bundle of nerves you keep hidden from everyone but him. Mirio volleys teeth and tongue and lips back and forth with you while you both focus on one another’s sensitive spots, your hands flicking upward against the head of his dick before slowly shifting back down, squeezing him at different points to elicit those salacious moans from the depths of his chest. And his fingerprints drag along the soft folds that are tucked between your hips, never pushing too deep, but reminding you that he’s near and ready whenever you ask to bring forth yet another crashing wave of pleasure if only you just ask him to. 

He nips your lower lip and then kisses the corner of your mouth, blinking slowly so he can look you in the eyes, “Such a perfect little one for me, yeah? You’re so pretty and sweet and soft, fuck you’re soft. These cute lips and that adorable cunt. You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, words negligible at this point. You know he doesn’t need your assurances anyway. You tilt your chin so you can reach his mouth again, whining against his lips as your wrist angles to drag over the thick head of his cock one last time before you part.

“I want to taste you, Daddy,” your voice is small, mouth pulled into a pout that he pulls back to examine while he stills his fingers against your labia, slick and dripping onto the sheets beneath him. Mirio sighs, his cock twitching at the thought of your delicate mouth wrapped around whatever bit of him you’re able to swallow.

“C’mere,” he turns his body so he’s laid back on the mattress, arm tucked behind his head as he guides you with his free hand against the back of your neck. He thumbs at the skin there, rough fingers nothing but gentle while he handles you. You note each scar on his body as you trail your fingers over his skin, waiting as he settles into the plush down of the mattress. Your head finds his hip, one leg slung over his calf so your cunt is bared to his knee, if you wish to grind down on it. The heel of your hand rests on his thigh, near his balls, and your fingertips ache to reach between the thickest parts of him to touch what is usually hidden to the world, but always bared to you.

“Be careful, baby,” Mirio’s voice is a warning, “don’t hurt yourself.”

Oh, that sounds like a challenge if there ever were one. 

You part your lips and lick at the tip of his cock, drooling with a pearlescent bead of pre, saltine and delectable. Your eyelids shutter closed simultaneously with the moan that shakes Mirio’s entire body. His hand digs deeper into your neck on either side, fingers buzzing with the need to push your precious mouth down until your face is buried into the vee of his hips and your mouth is drooling around his cock. He withholds himself, though, knowing that you need to prove to yourself what you can do with whatever parts of your body you wish to use.

One hand stays wrapped around the base of him, your eyes near crossing as you watch the blushing tip of his cock tremble under your gaze. You look up for his permission, hazy eyes somehow finding him, and you wait for him to nod before you begin to suckle on the head of his dick. The corded muscles of his thighs are shuddering with each bob of your head, his abdomen muscles flexing as he restrains himself from pushing you too far.

“That’s’a good girl,” he grits his teeth with each syllable, tilting his jaw so he can watch your eyes water with how you try to take too much to start. You choke and gag when you attempt to put your nose to his blonde curls, the tip of him brushing your uvula and dragging out your gag reflex. Tears soak your cheeks and drool dribbles down either corner of your mouth, and Mirio has to guide your face away from his cock before you try to go again in spite of your reaction.

After a few more attempts to draw your mouth down to the base of his cock unsuccessfully, Mirio lets out a patronizing chuckle, dragging you by the neck so you won’t continue your assault and make yourself sick. Your thighs latch around his leg, cunt dripping on his knee, begging like a child for him to let you go so you can prove something to him.

“Stop it.”

You blink once, looking him in the eyes, “B-But-”

“What did I say?”

A fresh set of tears stain your cheeks and the sheets, and Mirio gathers you up in his arms and sits forward so you’re tucked against his lap, “Feel that?” He’s talking about the way his cock bobs against your belly, bubbling with arousal and begging to be sheathed inside of you. He noses your cheek, “You did that. All you, baby. With that pretty mouth and those sweet hands. You did such a good job. Such a good girl for me, yeah?” 

You whine, dropping your head to his shoulder but keeping your head lilted so you can look down at his dick, watching as it twitches with every move that you make. You want to reach your hands down to take him between your fingers, to push him over the edge as he’s already done for you three times tonight. You want to give him everything he’s gifted you and so much more.

“I know what you want, honey,” he’s quiet but in the emptiness of your room it feels so loud. Each word sends a shockwave to your core and you shiver at the sound, “W-Want you, Daddy. Just want you.”

“I know, baby,” and this time it is almost sad the way he says it. He takes a deep breath and tilts your head with his thumb beneath your chin, “Let me take care of you, okay? You took such good care of me, now it’s your turn.”

He wordlessly hauls you up by the waist with minimal effort, and looks you in the eyes, “I want you to guide me, okay? I want you to show me where you want me.”

You nod and reach down so your hands are wrapped around the very end of his cock, bobbing your fingers up and down just to milk what’s left of the sweet spurt of pre so his tip is drooling, and then you position his dick so it will split your cunt in two. Slowly, Mirio drops you down, watching your hands fall away so he can get an eyeful of his cock as it spreads your lips and disappears, inch by inch into your sweet, slippery pussy. 

“That’s my girl,” he grunts, allowing you to fall forward so your hands are on his chest, bracing you before you take his entire length up into your stomach. Tears surface on your lids and he’s quick to kiss the corners of your eyes until they’re gone, “Sweet girl, don’t cry. You’re doing so good for me. I can’t wait to fuck this perfect cunt, can’t wait to give you all I’ve got.”

“Want it, Daddy, want it! I-I can take it! P-Promise-” You sob as you try to roll your hips, but his palms are steady against your body, which only makes you more frustrated that he won’t let you show him that you can be a good girl, that you can take his cock and do it well. 

Mirio is a sunbeam incarnate, all light and shine, warmth and something husky that reminds you of a sunny afternoon. So when he speaks, you listen, and you take each of his words and run them through your gummy mind until you’re sure you’ve heard him right.

“I know you can, baby girl,” he rotates your hips with the heels of his palms and you gasp as he spears you wide open, “You can do anything you set your mind to. But let go, and let Daddy take care of you this time, okay?”

Your whimpering is cut short when you feel the head of his cock brush your cervix and whatever comes next you can hardly remember except the sound of his name on your lips and the way he burns you alive only to soothe the ache when it’s all over hours later into the night.

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Chapter 7

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

FIVE DAYS LATER

BJORNHEIMR, THE TEMPLE

Eivor cradled the basket in his hand, meticulously examining its contents to ensure that everything was in order.

At the moment, he was preparing to make an offering to Thor as thanks for their good fortune on the day of the ambush, and had arranged a humble collection of different gifts for the mighty god.

Inside the basket, he had placed a variety of meat, beer, mead, sweets, and a dagger from his own personal armory. Normally, Eivor wasn’t the type to depend entirely on the gods for safety, but considering recent events, he wanted to secure a strong relationship with them in case a tempest were to strike the village. He had no idea if Kjotve was planning any other attacks in addition to the ambush, and he could think of no one better to appeal to other than the Defender of Midgard. 

He just worried that his offering might not have been sufficient. It was a well-known fact that the thunder god enjoyed things in great quantity, and Eivor didn’t have that much to give at the moment. Ingrida always said that no offering was too small, but even then, the man prayed that his gift wouldn’t be considered measly. Things were precarious enough in Bjornheimr as it was; Eivor did not wish to vex the gods as well.

Working his way up the hill, the Wolf-Kissed spread a layer of cloth over the basket’s opening and held it tightly underneath his arm, careful not to disturb its contents.

He could hear the drinks sloshing inside their bottles to the rhythm of his footsteps, and a handful of scattered clinks reached his ears as they softly bumped into each other. Meanwhile, tiny snowflakes began to gather on the fabric lying above, and sunk into the cloth’s neatly-knit threads. They dotted the surface with jeweled specks of ice and clung onto Eivor’s skin, giving him a slight chill. 

The weather wasn’t exactly ideal for spending any time outside -- the snow seemed to be piling up higher than usual today -- but the young man carried on with his plan nonetheless. 

Reaching the top of the hill, Eivor strolled past the charms decorating the sides of the path, only to stop in his tracks when a nearby pair of voices caught his attention.

Up ahead, Eivor saw Ingrida and Sigurd talking with each other underneath the roof of the temple, just barely avoiding the snow that came blowing their way. The prince wore a wary expression on his face and spoke to the seeress about a matter of deep concern, causing a sense of anxiety to swell in Eivor’s chest.

It was fairly clear to the Wolf-Kissed that his friend spent a lot of energy concealing the many troubles in his life, but the fact that he felt the need to reach out to their völva worried him to a significant degree.

He hadn’t seen Sigurd ever since their conversation in the tavern after all, and he was oblivious to any new issues that may have risen during their time apart. It was unusual to see the prince in such a state, and Eivor had to admit that his curiosity was beginning to get the best of him.

He only hoped that Ulfar wasn’t the source of his perturbed nature. The man made his feelings about Sigurd quite plain back in the tavern, and Eivor had never known him as a person to shy away from confrontation. It was a blessing of a trait in most situations, but a hinderance in this one.

“...You’re certain there’s no other explanation?” Sigurd asked, clearly unhappy with the response he got.

Ingrida crossed her arms, reiterating her point. “I will tell you the same thing I told Eivor. I cannot speak in absolutes, for I do not know the gods’ intentions. I can attempt to decipher the messages they convey, but ultimately, it is impossible to offer anything unambiguous.”

The prince let out a troubled sigh. “I... I see.”

“I realize this must be disturbing news, but look at it this way. At least you are prepared now. You have an inkling of what to expect, and sometimes, a mere suspicion can be enough to save one’s life. Obviously, I do not mean to stoke any paranoia within you, but a little caution would be wise.”

Sigurd nodded, taking the woman’s words to heart. “Of course, but you understand if I say this is difficult for me to accept. I don’t doubt your prediction, seeress, but... I just can’t fathom why anyone would--”

The man came to an abrupt pause, stopping mid-sentence when his eyes fell upon Eivor in the distance.

“--Oh,” he said, his voice still laden with unease, “Eivor. I didn’t see you there.”

Ingrida followed Sigurd’s line of sight, smiling in the Wolf-Kissed’s direction. “Ah, hello, little cub.” She eyed the basket in his hands. “Come to make an offering?”

Eivor hugged the object close to his chest, admittedly growing somewhat weary of bearing its weight.

“Yes, seeress. I hoped to thank Thor for our survival in the forest.”

The woman appeared pleased. “An excellent idea. Go on and present your gift to the gods. I will ensure that nothing disturbs it.” Ingrida brought her eyes back to the prince. “As for you, Sigurd, try not to let this revelation suppress you. You are a man of many responsibilities. Your clan needs you to stay focused.”

“...Of course. You’re right.”

“I’m glad you understand.” Ingrida began making her way back inside the temple, strolling through the arch. “This war is nearly over, but the battle has not ceased. Do not surrender just yet. Either of you.”

Shutting the door behind her, the seeress disappeared behind the temple’s walls and returned to her duties, leaving Eivor and Sigurd alone. Meanwhile, the younger man approached his friend and glanced at him in an inquisitive manner, hoping to calm his nerves somewhat.

“Sigurd?” He asked. “Are you alright? A cloud of unrest hangs over you.”

The prince took a moment to gather his thoughts, not wanting to alarm his companion too much. “I’m... I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.” He glanced at the basket in his grasp. “What’ve you got there?”

Eivor lifted the cloth. “Just some food and drink for Thor, and a blade as well. I figured I should bring something of great quantity considering our luck that day. What about you? What brings you to the temple? You looked... frightened when I arrived.”

Sigurd sauntered towards the other man, speaking as he walked. “Nothing of immediate urgency. I’ve just been having these strange dreams lately. Visions.”

“Visions? Really? Of what?”

“A wolf.” He answered. “At first, I merely dismissed the dream as a simple nightmare, but it’s been occurring over and over again. In the same way, and in the same order. So, I came to Ingrida for answers.”

Eivor’s interest was hooked. “Tell me about this wolf. What did it do? What did it look like?”

“The wolf was as white as snow,” Sigurd described. “Its eyes split the darkness with a predatory glare, and its stature challenged that of a fully grown man. Its snout and teeth were stained red with the pigment of fresh blood, and hiding behind its features, I... I could almost... recognize someone.”

“Recognize?” Eivor repeated. “What do you mean? This was a wolf, was it not? How could it resemble a human?”

The prince shrugged. “I have no idea, but... I felt it. There was something familiar about the wolf’s face. It was a sensation that I have no proper words to describe.”

The young man tilted his head towards the temple. “And? What did Ingrida have to say about these visions?”

Sigurd was quiet for a second, hesitant to tell the truth.

“...She believes this vision foretells a betrayal.”

Eivor’s eyes widened in surprise. “A betrayal? At whose hands?”

“She doesn’t know, and neither do I. I have no reason to suspect anyone just yet, but somehow, that almost makes it even worse.”

“How did the seeress come to this conclusion?” Eivor questioned. “What makes her believe betrayal is the only answer?”

“Because she had a similar vision,” Sigurd explained. “Ingrida tells me the gods sent her a dream the night before I arrived. Apparently, she saw a man who looked just like me. He bore the same mark upon his neck, and his eyes glowed with a raging fire. The ground beneath him was soaked in blood dripping from the stump of his own arm, and standing behind him was another white wolf, prowling in the shadows.”

A thought crossed Eivor’s mind. “...I suppose that explains why she called you ‘the one who walks with Tyr.’ It also explains why she was skeptical of you when you first met.”

“I suppose it does,” the prince agreed. “But what connection could I possibly have with Tyr? And why me? What makes me so special?”

Eivor shrugged. “I don’t know. You mentioned you used to have dreams about a kingdom constructed of iron when you were a child. Do you think that could be related?”

“...Perhaps? But I don’t see how it would fit into all this. The kingdom I saw looked nothing like any of the places I’ve ever heard about. Not Helheim, and certainly not Valhalla. It likely originates from a place beyond this realm, but the purpose of its existence continues to elude me.”

Sigurd sighed deeply, resting his hands on his hips. “...Forgive me. I don’t mean to dump all of this onto you. You probably have enough on your shoulders.” He switched to a lighter subject, deciding to put his fears to rest for the time-being. 

“How have you been, Eivor? Is your wound feeling any better? I planned to check on you multiple times, but I fear that my duties always got in the way.”

“No worries. It’s just started to heal. Ingrida says it’s going to leave quite a prominent scar in its absence, but well, it’s better than dying.”

A smirk twinkled on Sigurd’s face. “...I like it.”

“Really?”

“Why not? It gives you character. It makes you look like a warrior.”

Eivor chuckled. “That, or a fool who wasn’t able to handle himself in a fight.”

Sigurd’s smile only brightened. “Nonsense. Each scar you bear is a battle that you survived. Wear it with pride.” He patted his friend on the arm. “But enough about that. I was actually planning to visit you after speaking with the seeress.”

The Wolf-Kissed quirked a brow. “What for?”

“I wanted to take you up on your offer. For fishing. I was down at the docks earlier today, and saw some decent-looking fish roaming in the water. Still in the mood for it?”

Eivor nodded, grinning joyously at the man. “Without a doubt. We can find a boat and take it into the fjord. There are plenty of spots I can show you. Just let me finish my offering for Thor first.”

“Of course. I’ll meet you there when you’re ready. In the meantime, I’ll gather some supplies. See you soon.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A WHILE LATER

THE DOCKS

Pacing eagerly towards the pier, Eivor strolled excitedly through the village with an unusual spring in his step, smiling to himself as he briskly made his way past all the other buildings.

It had been a while since he last got the chance to spend any time with Sigurd, and he imagined that the two of them would have plenty of catching up to do. Even though they hadn’t bumped into each other for the past few days, Eivor always spotted the prince zipping back and forth around Bjornheimr, tending to his never-ending list of duties.

The man always looked so busy. Eivor was well-aware that a prince’s life wasn’t nearly as laid-back as other people expected, but even Sigurd’s schedule seemed to be overflowing with a ludicrous amount of responsibilities. He hardly had any time to even sit down, and the sockets around his eyes had darkened slightly due to a lack of sleep.

Eivor just hoped Sigurd was okay.

Finally arriving at the docks, the Wolf-Kissed came to a halt and gazed at this surroundings, trying to single out the prince’s head of red hair from the crowd. He eventually located the tall man standing at the edge of the pier with a basket and a pair of fishing rods, but to Eivor’s surprise, he wasn’t alone.

Dag seemed to have also joined the party, in spite of the sour expression plastered on his face. He was conversing with Sigurd in an agitated tone, and his brow had crinkled in a manner that displayed obvious annoyance. Strangely enough though, the prince didn’t appear to mirror his temperament. 

Just what was going on?

“Sigurd!” Eivor called out, causing both of them to turn their heads.

“Ah,” Sigurd replied radiantly, “Eivor. There you are. I was just asking Dag if he wanted to join us. I hope that’s not a problem?”

The younger man would’ve been lying if he said he wasn’t somewhat disappointed, but he didn’t have the heard to tell him “no.” He knew Dag was a close friend of Sigurd’s after all, and he didn’t want to interfere. But still... part of him had been looking forward to spending the day with the prince alone.

“No,” Eivor lied, “not at all. He can come if he likes.”

“Great.” Sigurd brought his gaze to Dag. “So, what do you say? Care to go fishing with us?”

To Eivor’s relief, the man refused.

“I appreciate the offer,” Dag said flatly, “but I can’t accept. I have other things to do. You two go on without me.”

“Are you sure?” Sigurd asked, somewhat put off by his friend’s dour mood. “The weather has calmed down since this morning. Now’s the perfect opportunity to take a break. We’ll only be gone for a short while.”

Dag nodded in a dismissive fashion. “Yes, I’m sure. I have many things to take care of, and I’m afraid they cannot wait. Like I said, you two can go without me.”

Sigurd’s eyes dimmed at his friend’s response. “...Well, alright. If you’re certain.”

“I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” 

Storming off like a pouty toddler, Dag practically stomped away from the scene and swiftly made himself scarce, leaving Sigurd and Eivor with an uncomfortable silence. The two of them watched in confusion as the man disappeared in the distance, and not too longer after he vanished, they exchanged glances with each other, bewildered by what just happened.

“What was that about?” Eivor asked. “Is something wrong with Dag?”

Sigurd sighed in frustration, reaching down to grab the basket. “You know what? I’ve been asking myself the same thing. Dag’s been acting this way ever since the feast, and I don’t know why. This kind of behavior is unusual for him.”

“Have you talked to him?”

The older man lifted the basket onto his shoulder, walking towards the end of the pier as Eivor followed him from behind.

“Not yet, no. And even if I did, I’m not sure he would give me a straight answer. Dag’s never been the type to open up so easily. I’m just wondering if it’s because of something I did.”

His friend was quiet for a moment. “Does Dag always behave like this?”

Sigurd shook his head. “No, actually. He’s still the same man I know most of the time, but... recently, he’s been going through these random bouts of anger. And they’re always directed at me.”

The prince placed the basket down on a boat waiting beside the pier, carefully stepping onto it as it gently bobbed up and down with the water’s movement.

“I just wish he would talk to me. Dag is a dear friend of mine, and I don’t want anything to be wedged between us. Especially not after hearing Ingrida’s prediction.”

Eivor gave him a sympathetic look. “Try not to let it worry you. I’m sure Dag’s just stressed out from the constant battling with Kjotve. I know we all are. He’ll open up to you when he’s ready.”

Sigurd let out a breath. “...I hope so. I have enough on my plate at the moment. I don’t have time to be running around in circles with Dag. The sooner he opens up, the better.” 

He suddenly glanced up at his companion, deciding to leave the subject alone. “But push that aside. You came here to fish, not to listen to my life problems. Are you ready to go?”

The younger man stepped off the dock and took a seat across from Sigurd, excited for the ride ahead.

“Ready when you are.”

“Wonderful. Thank you for coming with me, by the way, Eivor. I apologize if I seem more stern than usual. I fear that this past week taken a toll on me.”

Eivor took no offense. “There’s no need to apologize. We’re all going through a lot. It’s only normal. Just try to forget about it for now.”

“I’m glad you understand. You seem to be the only one these days. But... you’re right. Today is a day meant for relaxing. Let us not spoil it. Come on, why don’t you show me those fishing spots you mentioned? I’m eager to see them.”

The Wolf-Kissed grabbed the oar and smirked at Sigurd, pushing their boat away from the pier. “As you command, my prince.”

~~~~~~~~~~

BJORNHEIMR, THE FJORD

Venturing deep into the fjord’s divine embrace, Sigurd and Eivor traversed across the water’s glassy surface, steadily gliding along with its rippled waves. They made sure not to put too much distance between them and the village as they did with the waterfall, but even then, the sheer size of the fjord was enough to make them feel as if they had stepped into another world.

All around them, mountains extended into the sky for what seemed like miles, and appeared to kiss the base of the clouds. Their peaks were frosted with fresh snow that floated down from the heavens, and their base remained concealed beneath the ocean, forming a basin fit for the gods themselves.

Meanwhile, a thin curtain of fog draped itself over the mountains’ rugged forms and obscured the landscape waiting ahead, encompassing the world in a layer of mist that stood as a barrier between the two men and the secular village they left behind.

It was the perfect place to clear one’s thoughts, and Eivor could see that Sigurd was already beginning to unwind. The disquieted expression that once hung on his face had vanished, and at the moment, he was currently sitting peacefully on the boat, watching contently as fish poked their fins out from the water’s surface. 

They were completely alone out here, and Eivor wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“So,” the younger man said, “what’ve you been doing these past few days? I haven’t had the chance to talk with you in a while.”

“Oh, nothing too exciting,” Sigurd answered, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve joined your father and Ulfar at the war table quite a few times now, and I’ve also been getting to know Randvi more. It’s difficult to juggle between the two, but things have been going according to plan so far.”

Eivor threw a puzzled look at him. “What about your father? Does he not take part in your conversations in the war room?”

The other man hesitated for a second. “Oh, h-he does, but... well, he’s been occupied lately. Sometimes I take his place.”

Eivor couldn’t deny that he found the response a bit odd, but he decided not to pry any further. “I see. And what about Ulfar? I hope he hasn’t given you any trouble.”

It was Sigurd’s turn to be confused now. “Ulfar? No, none at all. Why would he?”

The Wolf-Kissed sighed sheepishly, unsure of how to explain. He assumed Ulfar would have already expressed his concerns to the prince about his ability to be a leader, but evidently, he was wrong. 

“I, well... I suppose there’s no harm in letting you know. The day you and I went to the tavern, Ulfar stayed for a drink after you left. Initially, he was in a rather foul mood, and it was directed at you. He said you almost got me killed in the forest.”

A look of guilt spread across Sigurd’s face. “...Ah, I see.”

“I spoke with him, though,” Eivor reassured. “I convinced Ulfar it wasn’t your fault, and he told me he’d withhold any further judgement for now. That’s why I asked if he had given you any trouble. I was curious to know if he still harbored these doubts. But don’t let it bother you. Whatever Ulfar does, it’s only to keep me and my siblings safe.”

Sigurd shook his head in disagreement. “No, he’s right. I should’ve been more careful that day. I made a foolish decision, and you nearly paid the price. It’s a good thing you’re a skilled warrior. Otherwise, I’d probably be responsible for your death by now.”

Eivor’s expression sank with pity. “Don’t say that. It’s not your fault what happened in the woods that day. You could’ve run off at the first sign of danger, but instead, you risked your life to save me. And everyone knows it. Even Ingrida.”

“Well, I may not be at fault,” the man conceded, “but I was ill-prepared for such an ordeal. If I’m going to be king someday, I need to be able to protect people. That includes you.” Sigurd shifted his position slightly, sitting more upright. “I promise, Eivor, I won’t endanger you like that again.”

The young man grinned. “I appreciate it, but we’re in the midst of a war. I’m afraid we don’t have much choice. Anything can happen at any time.”

“True, but I’ll still do everything I can to keep you and your people safe.” Sigurd displayed a small smile. “Death may be inevitable, but that’s no reason to let it take us so willingly. That’s why we have shields.”

Eivor chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”

The two of them trailed off into silence briefly, only for the prince to bring up another topic.

“Hey, speaking of Ulfar, did you hear his report?”

“No.” Eivor said.

“Well, apparently, he and his men found two camps in the woods not too far from where we were attacked. They both belonged to Kjotve.”

“Really? How many men were there?”

Sigurd conjured a rough estimation. “About ten each.”

“Ten?” The Wolf-Kissed repeated in alarm. “That’s nearly two dozen in total. That’s enough men to carry out a small raid.”

“Indeed. We’re lucky Ulfar was able to drive them out before their numbers grew anymore. Thankfully though, he didn’t uncover any plans to attack Bjornheimr. He believes these particular men were just scouts sent here to keep an eye on the village and send information back to Kjotve. Our encounter with them wasn’t coordinated. A few of his people simply decided to take matters into their own hands.”

Eivor found some comfort in that. “Well, that’s a relief, at least. Still, I wonder how Kjotve will respond to this.”

Sigurd raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“If these men were sending regular reports to Kjotve, he’s going to realize something’s wrong when they come to a sudden stop. He might even send reinforcements.”

The older man couldn’t help but admit he had a point. “Hmm. That does sound likely. I’ll have to warn your father and Ulfar about the possibility of retaliation. We may be preparing for a wedding, but Freya knows that won’t stop Kjotve from spilling blood.”

A shiver traveled down Eivor’s spine. “What if... what if he comes to Bjornheimr? What do you think we’ll do?”

The answer seemed fairly clear to Sigurd. “We’ll fight, of course. What else?”

“No, no,” his friend corrected, “I didn’t quite mean it like that. I just...” Eivor gazed down at his father’s axe, tracing a hand down its grip, “...I’ve spent so many years thinking about how I would take my revenge on Kjotve; for what he did to my parents. I’ve convinced myself that I’d slit his throat without a second thought, but... if he actually shows up, I don’t know if it’ll be that easy. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

A sense of empathy softened Sigurd’s eyes. “It won’t be easy. But whatever happens, make sure you fight for what matters. Ideally, Kjotve will never set foot on your shores, but if he does, fight not for revenge. Fight for the honor your father lost. Only then can you know true peace.”

Eivor stared aimlessly at the water surrounding them, trying to block out the memories of that horrible night. “...I’ll try. Even if it kills me.”

The younger man watched the soothing rhythm of the waves dancing around them and fell into a deep train of thought, only to be pulled out again when Sigurd’s voice reached his ears.

“Hey,” he said gently, leaning closer to his companion, “are you alright, Eivor?”

The Wolf-Kissed blinked a few times, still somewhat lost in his own past. “Yes. I’m fine. It’s just... difficult to think about, you know. My parents were killed over a decade ago, and yet, their words from that night remain fresh in my head. It’s hard to ignore them sometimes.”

“Of course,” Sigurd replied. “I understand.”

“Anyway,” Eivor said, not wishing to dwell on the grim subject any longer, “you mentioned you’ve been seeing Randvi more earlier. How are things going between the two of you?”

“We still don’t know each other that well,” Sigurd confessed, “but she strikes me as a kind woman; an honorable one. I think we can make this marriage work. Although, I must admit... it’s bizarre to think about how she’ll be my wife in only a week from now. The future felt so far away when I first got here, and yet, these past seven days have fleeted by within a heartbeat. It just makes me wonder how fast the wedding will arrive.”

Eivor caught onto his tone. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes, and so is Randvi. But I think we’re both slowly coming to terms with it.” A glint of curiosity formed in the prince’s gaze. “What about you, Eivor? Have you ever considered marriage?”

The man laughed. “Me? No, not really. I’ve had partners in the past, but... nothing serious. It’s difficult to imagine someone marrying me, if I’m being honest.”

Sigurd scoffed. “Psh. Nonsense. Anyone would be lucky to have you as their spouse.”

“You think?”

The older man shrugged. “Why not? You’re compassionate, humorous, handsome, and--” Sigurd suddenly froze in shock, utterly embarrassed by his own words.

Meanwhile, Eivor simply gave him an appreciative smirk, undeniably amused by his slip-up.

“You consider me handsome, do you?” He teased.

Sigurd stammered bashfully and brought a hand to the back of his neck, barely able to hold eye contact with the Wolf-Kissed anymore. “Gods above... erm, f-forgive me, Eivor. I... I didn’t mean to--”

“--It’s alright.” He interrupted. “The truth is, I think you’re handsome too.”

The prince paused at Eivor’s remark, calming down somewhat. “You... do?”

Eivor chuckled, leaning forward in his seat. “Yes, you fool. Who wouldn’t? You’re strong, kind, caring, and you...” the young man caught himself before he could say anything else and stopped mid-sentence, abruptly retreating from his comments as Sigurd watched him quietly.

“...No,” Eivor said, his tone much more sullen now. “I can’t do this.”

Sigurd found himself growing concerned. “What’s wrong?”

The other man sighed in despondency, looking shamefully away from his friend. Eivor assured Ingrida that he wouldn’t allow his emotions to interfere with the upcoming wedding, and yet, he had barely been able to stop himself just now.

His thoughts slipped free from his lips as if they carried a mind of their own, and if it weren’t for the fact that everyone’s safety was depending on this alliance, Eivor had no idea how far he truly would’ve gotten. 

His ability to restrain his desires was already being crippled just after a week of knowing Sigurd, and the looming reality of his feelings was enough to send Eivor into a state of panic and loneliness. 

These next few days were going to be nothing but absolute turmoil for him, and sooner or later, he’d have to accept it. He just didn’t know how.

“Sigurd...” Eivor whispered sorrowfully, “...can I be honest with you?”

The older man nodded. “Of course. What’s going on?”

The Wolf-Kissed looked him directly in the eye, taking a deep breath. “...The truth is, ever since we met at that feast, I’ve been infatuated with you.”

Sigurd’s brow furrowed in shock. “...You have?”

“Yes. Whenever we’re apart, I’m always thinking about when I’ll see you next, or how you’re doing. I care about you, and I worry about your well-being despite being no more than an acquaintance.”

The prince knotted his hands together in thought. “And what about when you’re with me?”

Eivor showed a faint smile to him, but its facade was quickly betrayed by the pain in his gaze. “I feel at peace. I feel like nothing in the world can touch us. I feel a certain way that I’ve never felt before with anyone else, and it... it frightens me sometimes.”

The young man continued. “But I can’t allow these feelings to develop any further. No matter how persistent they may be. We’re both bound by our duties, and yours is to secure an alliance with my clan. The only thing I can provide for you is a distraction that you can’t afford.” Eivor slunk back to his end of the boat, hiding inside the shell that he constantly wore. “...I’m sorry, Sigurd. But our relationship can’t go beyond this.”

Sigurd offered nothing other than silence in return and simply delved into his own thoughts, gazing downwards in a desolate manner. It was clear that he mirrored the same affections that Eivor expressed, but he felt even more reluctant to share them now that he knew about the other man’s views.

It was the burden of being a prince, he supposed. Everyone always told Sigurd that his choices were his own, and yet, he was being forced to repress something that others would’ve been more than happy to admit. His life had been nothing more than one big preparation to rule the kingdom someday, but he felt as if he hardly had any control over his own life.

Still, Sigurd knew Eivor was right, and he knew he couldn’t afford to deviate from the path set out in front of him. The war with Kjotve was much bigger than either of them, and everyone’s safety was depending on this alliance.

“I... understand, Eivor.” He said quietly.

The younger man hung his head low, unable to ignore the guilt settling into his mind. “I’m sorry it has to be like this, Sigurd.”

“Don’t be. What you’re doing is noble. Not everyone would have your restraint.”

Eivor’s mood barely lightened at that. “It doesn’t feel noble. But I know it’s necessary.”

Sigurd nodded solemnly, unsure of what to say anymore. “...Indeed.”

Having had enough of this place, the older man took hold of the oar and stuck it into the water, eager to return to solid land.

“We should starting heading back.” He said abruptly, earning a tilt of the head from Eivor.

“Already? Are you sure? We haven’t even been out for that long.”

“I know, but I fear that my free time is rather limited today. An abundance of tasks awaits me in Bjornheimr, and I’m almost certain that my father will require my presence as well.”

Eivor peered at Sigurd with concern, clearly able to see that he had been affected by their conversation.

“Okay.” He agreed tentatively. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Come on, I’ll row you back to the village. Just sit back and relax.”

Guiding their boat away from the fjord, Sigurd steadily drove them back to the shoreline without uttering another word as Eivor sat quietly on his side, admittedly feeling somewhat remorseful for having dimmed the mood.

Initially, he had been excited to spend more time with the forlorn prince, but now, he wondered if he had made a mistake. It was no question that a special type of bond connected the two of them, and Eivor mentally scolded himself for allowing it to strengthen even further.

At this point, part of him was considering the idea of severing their relationship. It was difficult enough battling the constant temptation that he felt whenever he was with Sigurd, so Eivor thought that, perhaps, it might’ve been best if he simply eliminated the chance for it to show up again.

There would be no need to practice restraint if the prince avoided him altogether. They would be complete strangers just like before, and Eivor wouldn’t have to worry about clashing with his desires on a daily basis.

But... he knew he wouldn’t be able to do such a thing. He cared about Sigurd too much, despite only having known him for a week. That man housed something special within his heart, and the last thing Eivor wanted was to cast it aside.

Still, he didn’t know how he would proceed from here. Sigurd was aware of his admiration now, and any interactions between them would’ve bred nothing but awkwardness.

They both needed some time to get their thoughts in order, and frankly, Eivor was starting to feel grateful that the other man decided to make such a swift exit. He needed to be alone for a while, and it was evident that Sigurd also had plenty to think about himself.

It was one of those moments where Eivor felt the urge to seek out guidance, and he knew exactly who to get it from. 

He just worried that they would tell him precisely what he didn’t want to hear.

~~~~~~~~~~

BJORNHEIMR, THE DOCKS

“Here we are.” Sigurd announced, letting the boat drift towards the pier as he gazed into the distance. “...And it looks like Dag is waiting for me. Just like I expected.”

Eivor stood up from his seat. “What does he want from you?”

His friend put down the oar and climbed back onto the docks, taking their supplies with him. “Nothing. It’s my father who probably wants something. Dag is merely the messenger. I just hope it’s not what I think it is.”

Walking briskly ahead of the other man, Sigurd strode down the wooden pier and made a beeline straight for Dag as Eivor hurried to his side, abandoning the boat. 

A newfound irritation had worked its way into the prince’s usually serene demeanor, and the Wolf-Kissed wondered if he’d finally learn the reason behind Styrbjorn’s aforementioned absence at the war table.

“Dag,” the redhead called out in a firm tone. “What are you doing here?”

The bulky warrior removed himself from the tree he had been leaning on and approached Sigurd, appearing no more pleased than before.

“The king requests your presence at the longhouse.” He informed. “There’s a problem he needs your help with.”

Sigurd sighed in defeat, plopping the basket down in frustration. “Of course he does. Is it the same ‘problem’ as yesterday?”

Dag nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

The prince shook his head angrily. “That drink-addled fool...! He promised me this wouldn’t be an issue. What is he doing now?”

“He’s waiting for you in his chambers. Same as always. I suggest you hurry. He’s in a worse state than usual.”

Sigurd’s face stiffened with ire. “And it’s no one else’s fault but his. What is that man thinking?” He paused for a second, recomposing himself. “...Thank you for letting me know, Dag. Hopefully, we’ll never have to have this conversation again.”

The raider began strolling away from them, pessimistic about the idea. “Hopefully, but not likely.”

Removing himself from the scene, Dag disappeared once again while Eivor took his place, confused as to what just happened. It was quite obvious to him that Styrbjorn seemed to be at the core of this issue, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what the issue was exactly.

“What’s going on?” Eivor asked. “Is your father safe? Do you need any help?”

Sigurd quickly rejected the offer. “No, no. He’ll be fine. He’s just being an idiot. It’s best if I deal with this alone. Believe me.”

The younger man’s curiosity remained fervent, but he decided not to press anymore. The prince was evidently in a state of heightened exasperation at the moment, and Eivor suspected that any further questions would’ve only earned him more animosity.

“...Alright. If you say so. But don’t hesitate to ask for my aid if you need it.”

“Thank you, Eivor. I appreciate it.”

Forcing himself to relax, Sigurd rubbed his temple out of stress and turned to face Eivor, softening the jagged edge of his voice.

“Forgive me. I don’t mean to be so irate, but things are chaotic enough as it is, and my father is only making things worse. He’s ignoring all of his responsibilities, and piling them on my shoulders instead. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t affecting me.”

Something clicked in Eivor’s head. “So that’s why you’ve been so busy.”

“Yes. That, and a few other things. But those matters are irrelevant right now. The only important thing I have to say is... thank you. For taking the time to come with me today.”

“Of course, Sigurd. You need only ask.”

The older man beamed warmly. “...You truly are a blessing. You know that, Eivor? I genuinely believe you’re the only person I can fully rely on. You’re a man worthy of trust.” He placed his hands on his hips, returning to his usual temperament. “But I’ve idled for long enough. My father’s probably wondering where I am. Feel free to take all the fish we caught. You deserve it for putting up with me today.”

Eivor took the basket in hand, waving goodbye to Sigurd. “Farewell for now, my friend. Take care of yourself. And remember, I’m here if you need me.”

The prince started heading in the direction of the longhouse, returning the wave with one of his own. 

“The same goes to you. I may be busy, but my door’s always open, Wolf-Kissed. I only pray that our next meeting will be under better circumstances. Until then, stay safe. We all need you.”

[paralumanleadmehome]

It’s been quite some time since I’ve last joined a contest and I honestly missed this feeling of trying to figure out what to write, how to write it, and how to deliver it exactly as you need to to impress the judges. It’s been so so long and welp. I’ve grown rusty and this is definitely not proof-read but all the same, thank you to @queenangst and everyone who had made this possible.

You brought me back a feeling I haven’t felt in so long.

This is my entry to queenangst’s BNHA gen contest: Finding Home 

(please see under the cut as this has 3.5k words and could be very long)

Finding Home

o.

It started out as a legend – two souls separated at creation, two souls that make up one whole, two halves of one soul completed upon connection.

Two becoming one.

But legends are legends for a reason – mythical, mysterious, only with a hint of a truth.

Soulmarks began appearing even before the dawn of quirks –little symbols that litter the body, one that you could only call your own. One that only you could share to whom you so ever desire. It varies in shapes and colors, some being a butterfly tinged in red and orange, others an ocean wave the shade of green, and to some more, it covers a palm, a thigh, a foot. Unlike its legendary counterpart, however, a soulmark does not lead you to a soulmate. Instead, it leads you to one where you can feel whole.

A soulmark is a symbol of love and friendship given in trust and good faith – one that cannot be taken, one that only be passed on.

A soulmark is a symbol of warmth and everlasting connection – one that is stronger than flesh and blood.

A soulmark is a symbol of home – one that you choose for yourself.

One person can have as many as the stars in the sky and as few as the petals of a clover.

And Izuku? Izuku only has his own, his mother’s, and the black mark of one Bakugo Katsuki.

After all, no one wants to share the mark of a useless, quirkless, little Deku.

And so, however sacred, Kacchan had cut his own connection with Izuku, both of them bearing the ashen remnants of a once golden sun and a viridian shooting star – the pain of which Izuku found more unbearable than the explosions that kissed his skin.

And Izuku no longer believed in soulmates.

Not when the world was so intent on pushing him down and pushing him away, not when no one would stand up for him and with him, not when the only love and care he had ever known came from the woman who had loved him the most.

So Izuku never shared the mark on his wrist with anyone, never the light of the shooting star that brightens up the dark sky, never the stardust that falls on the earth, never the ray of hope he had held even in the darkest of times, keeping it hidden in long sleeves, wristwatches, and bandages. And at all times he keeps covered the blackened sun that rests on his heart, refusing to see the ashes of a friendship no longer alive, refusing to acknowledge the searing pain that would accompany the sight. Instead, as always, he keeps close the mint green lotus that rests on the base of his right ear, his eyes never not seeing it each morning, afternoon, and night – the one and only reminder that he is loved.

He is loved.

He is loved.

And he lets himself be content with that.

i.

The first of many soulmarks that Izuku will treasure came from the man that he had idolized his whole life.

Yagi Toshinori, for all his time as the Symbol of Peace (and more the time he had spent alive), only carries with him four marks, not counting his own. Izuku doesn’t ask when he sees. He doesn’t think it is polite to, especially when most people aren’t interested in bonding with a quirkless child (and although All Might already knew he was quirkless and didn’t deny him this chance to train, the man’s initial denial of his dream still stings). He doesn’t ask about the faded crescent moon that rests on his collarbone (it isn’t nice to ask about the dead, after all), nor about the black spaded horse on his left ankle (he was shocked at first, upon seeing this lost connection, and his heart ached at the thought that even All Might had to bear the pain of losing someone he had once loved so dearly). He doesn’t ask about the violet sigil of a fish on his shoulder blade nor the diamond glasses near his scar. He doesn’t ask about any of these things.

Instead he asks about experiences – what was it like to be a hero of his caliber? Was he ever afraid of anything? Was there ever a time that he was unable to save someone? What was he like as a student? Did Dagobah Beach mean something special to him? Things that the world weren’t privy to – things that he didn’t know were personal.

Things that would’ve only been known if All Might had chosen him as his soulmate.

And All Might did.

One day, at Dagobah Beach, after the world had finally met the man behind All Might, Toshinori Yagi had offered his ocean blue sunflower tucked on the opposite side of where the faded moon resided and had asked Izuku if he had wanted to carry his soulmark.

And Izuku… flinched.

Because to hold another’s soulmark would mean to be aware of them at all times – to feel their warmth despite the distance, to know with one brush of a hand the feelings that lay in their hearts, to give them comfort even in the presence of an absence.

To bear a soulmark is to be eternally connected.

And Izuku had been burned by the loss of it.

And he is scared, afraid, terrified – because to be All Might’s successor is one thing. To be given his quirk and his legacy is a dream come true but to be his soulmate? To be near him? To know him and be known by him in return? It’s terrifying.

And yet… and yet… Izuku takes this fear and lets it be known.

In quiet whispers, jumbled words, and a steady stream of tears.

Because deep down, Izuku longs to be connected.

And it is in the act of letting someone close does he remember what it feels like to be loved.

ii.

The second one, surprisingly, came in the form of a little girl.

A quiet, frightened, injured little girl who had ran away from a monster of a man.

Eri bumped into him during his first patrol with Lemillion and this mess of child with a stature so small and eyes too scared clung to him for dear life – and Izuku’s soul ached.

Izuku took one look at the man with the bird mask, one look at Lemillion, one look at this little girl, and made up his mind.

“Eri,” he whispered, “do you trust me?”

It was a stupid question, he knew, but a soulmark is something to be given in trust – a treasure to be received in good faith.

“You’re good,” Eri answered just as softly, little hands clinging to his costume. “You’re warm.”

Izuku doesn’t know if Eri feels the same pull, the same fierce protectiveness that forces its way into his heart, and he knows that this is more his own desire to keep her safe than any other force telling him that she was a part of his own soul.

Because Eri mattered regardless.

And Eri was worth keeping safe.

So for the first time in a long time, Izuku removes the bandage that hides his own soulmark and he shows it to Eri.

“This will keep you safe for me,” he tells her, “this will let you know I’m here.”

In the background he hears the tense conversation coming to a halt, sees the way the man’s eyes turn to look at Eri, and he knows he doesn’t have time.

“This is a promise.”

And Eri stares at it for little while, hands reaching to the shooting star. “A promise,” she repeats, and with a little nod and hopeful eyes, Izuku places a finger on her arm, just beneath her sleeves, and let their foreheads touch.

The words come to him unbidden, the way words do when you give someone a piece of your soul – a promise to be fulfilled, a wish to be granted, a part of you that will forever be a part of them.

“I will always come for you.”

And he did.

iii.

Not counting his own nor Kacchan’s, Izuku has two soulmarks on his body.

One from his mother, another from All Might.

He didn’t ask for Eri’s and she hadn’t offered in return.

Eri was as afraid of her soulmark as much as she is afraid of her quirk.

Cursed, she calls the silver dove wreathed in yellow petals on her ankle. Cold, she thinks of it. It will still be a long way to go, Izuku assumes, but as long as Eri can feel his warmth, his presence, that would be enough.

The third one, interestingly enough, was in the image of an aquamarine heart, with its curves jagged and cornered, just as a gem so precious and true.

Kouta gave it to him as gift, as a thank you, as something for Izuku to remember him by.

Kouta didn’t ask for Izuku’s own soulmark, didn’t even breathe a word about it. Instead the little boy ran up to him, little arms wrapping him in a hug, and said,

“I’ll always be cheering you on.”

And when Izuku sees the way Kouta’s soulmark shine, he accepted it without a second thought.

And when Kouta pulled away afterwards, face pulled in a frown, Izuku tried to ignore the fear that stabbed his own heart. He wondered if he would make a world record, an ashen mark as soon as he had received it, but Kouta dispelled his fears just as easily.

“That felt weird,” Kouta said. Izuku blinked at him, his mind taking a minute to process, until he caught up. Then he laughed and laughed because he feels exactly what Kouta feels – the disappointment, the confusion, the curiosity… and the underlying overwhelming emotion of it all.

Unbridled joy.

The elation of having someone know you – of being accepted, treasured, remembered.

He also felt the embarrassment that followed as Kouta turned as red as his shoes.

iv.

The soulmark exchange with Shinsou had been quiet.

It happened on the night of their second year when they both stumbled upon each other in the kitchen at the forsaken 2am hour did Shinsou spring up the topic.

“You don’t have that many soulmarks, do you?” the question was genuine, as far as Izuku can tell, and although the boy was rough around the edges, he knew it was due to the fact that Shinsou had so little support in life and was untrusting of all that Izuku had felt a kindred spirit in that regard.

They have observed the people around them, of course, and have noticed that everyone at least had five. A family member, a best friend from childhood, a classmate they never got lost in contact with.

Izuku stole a glance at the back of his right hand, at the blue heart settled at base of his forefinger and thumb and hummed an agreement. “No, I don’t,” he agreed, letting stiff fingers be warmed by his tea. He doesn’t return the question to Shinsou, knowing that it was a touchy subject for the other boy, but he did wonder, “Why do you ask?”

They don’t talk about it much, these colorful marks on their skin. They don’t talk about how a brush of hand over the little symbols can feel as warm as an embrace, how fear isn’t so scary when someone else sends you courage, how silence isn’t deafening when someone knows to listen.

It is in moments like these that they listen.

Izuku listens to Shinsou’s own quiet humming, the way the gears in his mind seem to move, the way he figures out how to phrase the words he wants to say next. And Izuku has been thinking about it – had been for the past few months.

Will his classmates ever want a piece of his soul?

He could tell that Uraraka does. He could tell that Iida would want one, too, but a soulmark is something that’s rarely asked for due to its sacred nature – it is freely given, after all, and never to be taken lightly. And Izuku had never offered. He had wanted to, of course, but he knows how messy his mind can get. He knows how anxious he can be. It’s why he had given his to Eri in a pace that is both hidden and seen, something she had to reach out for so she could feel. Izuku could not yet know what Eri is thinking or feeling, nor will he ever have inkling to unless she so desired, and Izuku is completely fine with that.

After all, a soulmark is a connection of souls – but it didn’t have to be an exchange. What it did mean though is that for one who bears the soul of another is to be aware of them – to be able to feel their warmth and develop an understanding of their soul. It is not to read their minds nor to know everything about them, but it is about the intimacy of knowing someone and being known.

A commitment.

A promise.

Like an artwork waiting to be completed, like a dance you can take to heart, a soulmark is connection that bridges the gap between someone you know and someone you choose forever.

“I don’t get it,” Shinsou finally said, and Izuku turned his eyes to him, the question lost in his tongue. “You have a strong and flashy quirk, you have so many people who love you and would fight the world for you, heck Uraraka and Iida would probably murder someone for you if you ask them, and yet you don’t have their marks and… they don’t have yours. I know I’m not good at this thing but at the very least, people give their marks away as easy as they’re giving candy. And you guys are pretty close, so I don’t get it.”

And the pain of burning that bridge is the same as losing a piece of your soul. Izuku absentmindedly reaches for his heart, the ashen remains of Kacchan’s soulmark embedded on his skin still, and he tries his best to forget.

Izuku looks instead at the clock in the kitchen, noting that it’s only 2:17am, and asks if Shinsou would like to listen to a story.

And they left the kitchen at 5:00am, only to crash in the couch, heart heavy yet full, mind settled and secured, souls at ease, and both boys sharing a mark they never expected to kiss their skin.

v.

The night Izuku had laid bare his soul for someone else to see, when it was him who had reached out first before someone else had offered, when he had done it so willingly and freely, it felt as if something has shifted within him – and in all the remaining years he had spent in UA, he was able to garner a couple more soulmarks for his own. He finally had the pink milky way that was Uraraka’s, the red lighting storm that was Iida’s, and Todoroki’s fiery white snowflake.

And to think that before all of this, before meeting All Might, before knowing these people and being known in return, Izuku was afraid and alone – afraid of the vulnerability that came along with letting people in.

To think that all he had ever thought about when he thought of soulmates were fireworks kissing his skin, long fingers bruising his arms, and taunts and jeers haunting his every waking moment – but now he is surrounded by love and warmth. Now when he thinks of soulmates, he thinks of mochi in the common kitchen, tea in hand; he thinks of morning jogs and healthy breakfast; he thinks of cold soba and cats; he thinks of unicorns and sprinkles and little kids and coloring books; he thinks of training sessions and laughter and peace.

Now when Izuku thinks of soulmates, he thinks of home.

And speaking of home, he can’t wait to get back to their apartment and give his mom the biggest of hugs. They had always called even when he was away and even when they would consistently send little taps through their soulmark, nothing still beats the warmth of a real embrace – and this is what Izuku fixes his mind on as he cleans out his dorm room, packing away every picture frame, books, notebooks, clothes, and figurines. Graduation is in a few days and after that, their debut to hero society. None of them would have enough time to clear out by then.

Izuku packs away the memories, just as he did each item that reminds him of it, and keeps them close in his heart. He packs away the ten million headband, the plushies from the cultural festival, the cards he had received from Eri and Kouta, and he tries his best not to feel emotional. He didn’t want to flood the dorms one last time, after all, but he did think it would be nice to have Aizawa-sensei scold him for being a problem child through and through but ultimately, it was the knock at his door that helps him succeed.

A knock, quiet and soft, and he opens the door to find Kacchan standing at the other side.  

Their relationship had improved over the years.

Kacchan is… less angry now, more settled. He’s still fiery and explosive but he doesn’t lash out anymore. Kirishima, Kaminari, the Bakusquad had been good to him and for him and Izuku had never been gladder about it. He had long stopped dreaming of the day that their relationship would be fixed – he and Kacchan had grown up, grown apart, and even when they drift back together, he is well aware that it would never be the same way again.

He doesn’t ask for it to.

He loves Kacchan, yes, with all his heart, but Izuku now knows that love does not have to be reciprocated for it to be real – but to still be loved in return is a precious treasure he keeps close.

“Hey, Kacchan, do you need something?”

And Kacchan looks at him, face pensive, mouth opening and closing, thinking and grasping and failing to think of the words he wants to say, and something in Izuku feels warm. After some time, the other boy settles with, “Are you busy?”

And if it was at any other time before, Izuku would’ve dropped everything that he had been doing and say no, he wasn’t busy, of course he had the time – but Izuku’s eyes sway to soulmarks on his arm and he steals a look at the digital clock by his table.

“I have thirty minutes,” was what Izuku told him. “I promised Todoroki we’d drop by the store to get his favorite soba since they’re not available near his house. I have time tomorrow morning thought if that works for you. I can cancel the morning jog with Iida if – “

“Thirty minutes is fine,” Kacchan answered back, cutting his rumbling off. It wasn’t harsh or angry. Just… very Kacchan-ish.

“Okay. Do you waant to step in? it’s a bit messy though, I still haven’t finished packing.”

And when Izuku heard the small tsk as he moved aside for Kacchan to pass through, he knew that the other boy won’t mind his mess. He felt a little grateful at that, to not be judged within the confines of his small room. They were silent for a few more second but it wasn’t the kind of silence that would make him uncomfortable. It was companionable, to say the least, and Izuku began picking up the pieces he had left before Kacchan had knocked and continued his packing. In another minute, Kacchan was helping him.

“Are you bringing the bookshelf home?”

“Nope, Aizawa-sensei said I could leave it here. Are you taking yours?”

“Thinking about it. Mine’s too small and I don’t want to waste money on something I can recycle. Do you have bubble wrap for the merch?”

“In the third drawer by the study table. I have newspapers too if that’s better.”

“Oh, Kacchan, that one goes in the other box.”

“Why? What’s the difference?”

“All my signed books are in one place.”

“Just how many posters do you fucking have?”

“Oh, come on, don’t pretend you don’t have just as many.”

“I’m not a hero-worshipping nerd like you, dumbass.”

“Says the guy who zonks out at 8pm.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

“Kacchan, that’s limited edition!”

“I’m sorry.”

“…”

“For everything.”

“…”

“It was pretty messed up, the things I did, and I know sorry won’t fix this.”

“Can you pass me the tape, Kacchan?”

“…”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

“Please put this box by the bed.”

“Okay.”

“…”

“…”

“You’re right, I don’t have to forgive you.”

“…”

“But I already did.”

“Deku…”

“It won’t fix what’s broken and it won’t stop the sting from the soulmark but…”

“…”

“We’re better now, aren’t we?”

“…”

“Kacchan, we’re better now.”

“You missed the night light.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“…”

“…”

“And it’s only going to get better, right?”

“…”

“…”

“Of course.”

“You’re still a sappy piece of shit.”

“Well, I’m not the one who’s crying, am I?”

“Fuck you.”

“Whatever you say, Kacchan.”