#i absolutely know what it is it's the sharp angles and edge of trickery. but that's all just the way of the world (foxes)

[vulpinesaint]

animated fox characters will trans a young child's gender in a Second

[daybreakrising]

@fightingdreamcrs​ asked: five times kissed [yamato & kakashi] from this meme

Under a cut bc these will all get long.

ONE

He always found the other man's face comforting to look upon, even when he was confined to a hospital bed and looking rather worse for wear. He had, of course, kept a tab on Kakashi after he left the ANBU to become a sensei, but he'd had very little opportunity to spend much time with his old friend due to their respective responsibilities.

This was, perhaps, the first proper chance they'd had to see each other in quite some time.

It was just their luck that he'd be off on a mission in his place almost immediately. He waited patiently as information was shared and plans were made, and he lingered in the room after the others had filed out to prepare for their next steps.

"You've looked better." He muttered, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. He hovered beside the bed for a moment, waiting until Kakashi's only open eye gave a subtle glance to the space beside him before he perched upon the edge.

"I'll look out for them." He promised, his hand coming to rest atop Kakashi's. Their shared history ran much deeper than anyone would think. "I know you'll worry. Try to focus on your recovery, hm?" His hand briefly cupped Kakashi's cheek, his lips touching to the closed lid of his Sharingan eye. It was brief, and he rose to his feet almost immediately after, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Enjoy your book, senpai."

TWO

He'd really only wanted to find a quiet spot to enjoy some peace.

The tree had been pure chance, a large oak with huge, gnarled roots twisting out of the ground, its vast canopy a perfect shelter from the sun's rays. There was a perfect space between two of the larger snaking roots for someone to sit comfortably, and it was there that he settled, back to the trunk, watching the leaves rustling above in the light breeze.

A smile crossed his face as he registered the presence on the other side of the tree.

"If you're going to lurk, at least do it where I can see you."

In the blink of an eye, Kakashi stood beside him, hands tucked into his pockets. Yamato glanced up at him, then back to the patches of sky visible through the branches. "Nice day." He murmured idly. Kakashi uttered a wordless hum of agreement. Yamato counted to five before the other man crouched down to his level, counted another two before he turned his head, catching him in a kiss through the mask.

There were no more words between them. Kakashi settled beside him, his latest book materialising out of a pocket. Yamato leaned his shoulder to the other man's, head resting back against the bark as he smiled, drinking in the peace.

Apparently, the space between the roots was just perfect for two.

THREE

The water ran swift down his skin, drumming against the tense muscles of his shoulders. He stood beneath the spray, head bowed, eyes closed, simply letting the hot water soothe the aches and pains from the latest bout of training with the team. Sometimes, he wondered if they were fully aware of how taxing it could be on him.

Hands slid up his arms before coming to rest on his shoulders, fingers automatically kneading into the tense knots. His lips curved into a grateful smile and he lifted his head, allowing himself to lean into the firm body now positioned at his back.

"You look tired, Tenzo."

He didn't correct him this time. Truthfully, he liked that Kakashi continued to use that name. His complaints were mostly for show. He turned to face the other man, stepping into the embrace immediately offered to him, his own arms encircling Kakashi's waist.

His lips found the sharp line of Kakashi's jaw, unadorned in the privacy of his home. His hands pressed firmly to the other man's back, his forehead falling to rest against his shoulder. Fingers threaded into his hair, the touch soft and soothing.

He could rest now.

FOUR

Yamato had been afraid before. He had felt the fear grip his heart, freeze his limbs, cloud his judgement. He had fought through it, pushed it back, refused to let it rule him.

He had never felt fear like that before.

His heart wouldn't settle until he saw him, awake and breathing and alive. His hands had shaken as he approached, his mouth dry, a shiver across his skin, blood chilled in his veins. He prayed that this was no trick, no cruel falsehood to torture him. He couldn't lose the one person who truly knew him. He couldn't.

But then he heard that voice, those beautiful smooth tones he knew so well.

He saw him, that shock of silver hair, and felt the relief flood through him in great, giant tidal waves. Before he could stop himself, before he could tell himself to wait, his hands were taking the man by the shoulders, his eyes frantically searching his image for any sign of illusion, of trickery.

Alive.

His fingertips brushed warm skin as he tugged down the mask, his lips finding Kakashi's in a desperate kiss that conveyed that absolute terror he'd felt. He framed his face with both hands, shielding what was his from view, letting the kiss linger as long as he was allowed.

When he pulled back, he tugged the mask back into position, and fixed Kakashi with a stern look and whispered, "Don't you ever do that to me again."

FIVE

It would be a long time before things were okay.

Before he was okay.

Fingertips traced the tattoo on Kakashi's left shoulder, an identical copy to the one on his own. Over, and over, and over. If he could focus only on the swirl of the pattern, he wouldn't have to think about anything else. About the war. About… that.

The room was dark, dominated by shadow, lit faintly only by the light of the moon filtering in through the window by the bed. It allowed him to see the angles of Kakashi's face, the line of his throat. His anchor.

The arm looped casually around his back tightened, drew him in closer. Yamato's hand ceased its endless tracing and instead came to rest upon the other man's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. That, too, was an anchor.

Lips pressed to his temple, his forehead, his nose. Soft, fluttering kisses designed to comfort, to distract, to tell him he was loved, he was safe. It felt like such an effort to smile, but he could do it for Kakashi, for the ever-loyal partner always at his side when he needed him. He tipped his head up, found the man's lips, sank into a kiss that could always fill him with warmth.

He wouldn't sleep tonight.

Kakashi wouldn't either.

They would face their nightly demons together, as always.

[psychoticgirl]

Big Teeth Small Kiss

For Sifki Week Day 2: Mythology. 

Inspired by a wonderful anonymous prompt regarding the traditional Norse myth of Loki’s part in the death of Baldur. I took the idea of the prompt and went in a totally different, much darker direction, but I hope it still works!

AO3 I FF

She had accepted his request for her presence without hesitation, allowing a guard to lead her through the Royal wing of the palace before letting her continue on alone through the final door. She found Loki with his pale face turned up, studying the sunlight and the shadows it cast on the private courtyard as if measuring the time.

She allowed herself a breath to admire the view of his long form and sharp features warmed in the garden sun. She also guessed that he was fully aware of her gaze and lingered a moment to preen. He turned slowly at the sound of her approach and greeted her with a smile. “Right on time, My Lady.”

Sif tipped her head and pressed an arm across her chest. “Always, My Lord.”

“Shall we continue where we left off?” The prince gestured towards the garden bench, laid out with the bow Sif had come to prefer from the prized noble collection.

Sif nodded and approached, lifting the thin arrow from the bench to inspect the weapon. A shaft of mistletoe. A curious choice, Sif thought, sliding her thumb against the edge of the sharpened side. A cutting pain pricked her during the motion, and a fat drop of crimson blood formed on her thumb. Instinctively the warrior brought the thumb to her mouth and sucked at the wound to ease the pain.

Loki took her wrist, pulling her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the pad of her tender thumb, then letting it drag against his bottom lip, exposing his teeth. The sight brought an image of a wolf to Sif’s mind.

“Take care, Lady.” Loki released her hand and reached up to smooth his own thumb against her cheek in a curiously tender gesture. “A shieldmaiden such as yourself should know best of all that even the most unassuming thing can be dangerous.”

Sif smiled at the veiled compliment and reclaimed her hands, bending to gather the bow and arrow.

“I have a surprise,” Loki reached into the folds of his leather, “if you would indulge me.”

Sif’s stomach flipped as she watched and listened to his smooth voice. Loki presented a blindfold in his upturned palms, the sleek black silk held in offering against his graceful hands.

“What’s this?” Sif questioned.

“Your finesse with the bow has surpassed the skill of anyone who ever wielded that weapon before you. You possess the best, most accurate shot in the entire nine realms, dear Sif. Your skill is truly unparalleled.” He dropped his gaze from hers and looked down at the silk in his hands before continuing. “I confess I’m not quite ready for our private sessions to cease. I thought a challenge may bring a new thrill for one more test.”

Sif hesitated a moment, looking towards the small, soft flour sack that served as her  target, which Loki had spent ample time adjusting to his liking until it was positioned just so across the yard, at chest height.

“Don’t you trust me?” Loki asked, his voice full of feigned insult.

“Not at all,” Sif half-lied.

She stepped closer to accept his challenge and his smile at her acquaintance warmed her belly.

“Brave Sif,” he complimented.

“Foolish Sif,” she corrected and his grin grew more wicked.

She stood still while the second born prince carefully placed the length of silk across her eyes, allowing herself one last look at the alluring angles of his face, before her world turned a warm black. Although the sun was bright, the blindfold was opaque and her sight was lost. In response, her other senses heightened and electrified. Breathing in the smell of the Queen’s roses, she attuned her body to the pleasant sensation of the sun warming her skin and the wisp of her hair blowing gentle touches against her neck in the breeze.

She was particularly aware of Loki’s body next to hers, the smell of his leathers, the sound of his hum of approval all magnified in her darkness. She shivered when she felt his hands take her waist. He kissed her then, long and hard in a way that stole her breath and melted her into his touch. Secretly, desperately, she wished that she could see his face in that moment. Never before had he kissed her so openly, never in a public space outside of his bedchambers.

She mused over how she had come to be in this position, with her heart racing at and aching for Loki’s touch. She had never held him in high confidence, typically giving him a wide berth in the sparring yards, knowing him to be fond of mischief and trickery. She had been wary when he approached her one morning months ago when she was alone in the yard to invite her to the private royal training grounds. But her warrior heart was eager for the chance to access the spoils of weapons that was afforded to so few. It came as a surprise to her when she found Loki eager for the chance to share her bed, wooing his way forward with honeyed words, whispering praise of her prowess in the training yard and love of her body and mind into her ear.

She knew that his was a liar’s tongue. But she could not deny the pleasure it brought her, how her ego enjoyed the attention he lavished upon her in their secret meetings. And, oh, the pleasure he could coax from her body, was beyond anything she had ever felt before. She even perversely found enjoyment in the possessive way he looked at her. Slowly, unexpectedly, recklessly she had become putty in his hands.

She molded herself to him now. The passion of his kiss, heightened by the blindfold made her dizzy. The warrior allowed herself to give into the vulnerability of the moment, indulging Loki’s hands as he spun her abruptly, then caught her again with her back against his front, his long palm pressing her close. Blind, she didn’t have a clear sense of which way she now faced, still reeling from the kiss.

“If you please, My Lady.” His voice was velvet whispered in her ear, surrounded by his arms.

His hands covered hers to nock the the bow with the strange mistletoe arrow, and raise her arms to aim.

“Just a breath higher, that’s it. The time is almost here, lovely loyal Sif.” He placed his hands on her hips as she drew the bowstring back.

“You’re going to do so well,” he purred. “Get ready.”

Sif took in a calming breath in her darkness and tried to steady her racing heart.

“Now,” he demanded and Sif obeyed. Loosing the arrow and letting it fly.

She heard it connect with soft target, her aim true as ever and she smiled in her blindness.

“Perfect,” Loki’s voice dropped into her ear before he pulled his body away.

The woman’s scream that followed made Sif’s blood freeze, knowing something was dreadfully wrong. Raising a hand, Sif pulled the silken knot loose from the back of her head, blinking in the too-bright sun.

Across the courtyard Thor stood, pierced through with her arrow, growing pale as a weeping, screaming Frigga guided his body to the manicured grass, blood seeping into the dirt.

The look of surprise was frozen on the first prince’s face, not expecting the ambush while out for his daily stroll with his mother. It was supposed to be mundane. Punctual, routine, planned.

A chuckle drew Sif’s attention back to her lover, as Loki watched his brother crumple. A horrible, satisfied smile warped his features.

She suddenly realized what she had done, what she had been made to do.

The clarity struck her through and she released the silk clutched in her fist. In the moment between the blindfold fluttering from her fingertips and landing in the grass,  Loki caught her eye, and his smile momentarily grew, before the trickster’s wicked grin morphed effortlessly, melting into a look of absolute horror.

He began to back away from her, his voice a masterful performance of surprise. “Oh Lady Sif, what have you done?” He called louder and turned from her then. “Guards! Guards please!”

In horror, Sif looked down and the bow still held in her hands as the guards began to heed the prince’s calls. The intensity of pain and betrayal and fear felt as if her own heart had been shot through by Loki’s corrupt arrow. She released the weapon and turned to flee the grounds. In that moment her soft shattered heart turned to stone.

[tincanspaceship]

Per Aspera Ad Astra, ch.3

(ch.1) (ch.2)

Thanks to @onaperduamedee, @elissastillstands, and @speedygal for their input!

Word count-3485

rating-t

Philippa’s suitcase shut with a satisfying thunk. Michael perched on the edge of her bed, elbows balancing on her case. She reached out and slipped Philippa's hair out of its sloppy bun. Philippa held still as Michael rearranged her curls, slender fingers combing through her tangles, pressing against her cheek.

Do you have everything, Michael?

Michael shuffled forwards to plant a kiss on Philippa's cheek. Her unease leaked into Philippa's mind.

Are you all right, my love?

...I was just looking at the Vulcan studies on mind-melds…

Philippa reached for Michael's hand, her fingers working their way between Michael's.

And what?

Our meld–specifically, the lasting strength of our meld–shouldn't be possible. Many people who are quite close do sometimes pick up on the other’s emotions well on into their life. But thoughts...never, never after two weeks have passed, let alone six months. And we're human, only one of us has Vulcan training.

Gays do it better.  

What?

Accept it for what it is. A statistical improbability that just happened to fall on us by sheer coincidence. I know you're worried.

Philippa’s subtle smile and her flushed cheeks were enough to make Michael's anxiety fade a little. “You're right.”

“The captain is always right, Michael. When will you learn?” Philippa's brilliant grin tugged at Michael’s self-control. “Now, checklist. Do you have everything?”

“Yes. I will only partake in your unnecessary checklist if we're going to–” Michael sighed in distaste, “–cuddle.” Philippa absolutely beamed.

“You said it!”

“Yes, I said it. Shut up and move over,” Michael grumbled. Philippa's eyes gleamed as she shuffled over and patted the free side of the bed. Michael swivelled and hopped over their luggage, ending up with Philippa's hand on her forearm, sprawled on the mattress. She flipped onto her side and wrapped her arms around Philippa's waist, guiding Philippa's head to the hollow of her neck, jaw resting on her collarbone and hair tickling her throat.

“Ready, Burnham?”

“I still think this is unnecessary.”

“Toothbrush?”

“Check.”

“One week’s worth of clothes?”

“Check.”

“Swimsuit?”

“How long is this list?” Michael muttered.

“Hush. Swimsuit?”

Michael sighed. “Check.”

“Walking shoes?”

“Check.”

“Girlfriend?”

Michael squeezed Philippa a little tighter. “Check,” she chuckled.

“Good. I've taught you–” The beeping of the computer cut her off.

“Incoming call to Commander Michael Burnham,” it announced. Michael disentangled herself from Philippa, with a sigh. She sat up and ran her hand through her hair, grabbing her display PADD off her shelf, straightening her collar.

“Route call through PADD, computer,” she ordered, adjusting the angle to hide Philippa from view. Philippa managed to slip her hand into Michael’s while still remaining hidden.

Amanda's face flickered into view. Michael's sharp inhale was not lost on Philippa.

“Michael!” Amanda smiled. Michael tightened her grip on Philippa's fingers.

“Hello, Amanda.” Michael's smile was convincing.

I'm here, Michael, I'm here, Philippa soothed, brushing her thumb across Michael's.  

“I'm sorry to call you right before your shore leave, but...your father needs to talk to you.” Amanda's eyes crinkled as she talked, her mouth turned upwards slightly.

Michael, make up an excuse. In case you...need to hang up.

“I may have to leave. The transporter room can't wait for me forever.”

“Of course. Sarek?” Michael stiffened. Philippa stroked her back, tracing circles along her spine.

I've got you. Promise me that you'll hang up if you need to?

I promise, Philippa.

Sarek appeared on the screen, face blank. Michael's breathing hitched.

“Greetings, Michael.”

“Hello, Sarek,” she managed, through her teeth. Her knuckles turned pink from her grip on the display.

“I am sorry to delay your departure, however, I must discuss my behaviour six months ago.” Michael hand trembled around Philippa's.

Michael. I love you.

Philippa's voice echoed in Michael’s head as a quiet reminder. Michael swallowed and nodded, solemn. “What must we discuss?”

“I behaved irrationally.”

“You did,” Michael stated, blunt.

“I behaved irrationally because of an extreme imbalance of my mental state, due to a lack of sleep and exposure to an unknown virus that destroyed my rational thinking,” he explained.

Philippa...oh, is he serious?

Michael suppressed a sarcastic snort.  “Really,” she said, voice just slightly too loud.

Keep yourself together. And listen.

“I...take it you don't believe me. Please, Michael, I did not mean to say what I did.”

“Swear on Amanda,” Michael demanded, shaking slightly.

Michael?

I'm just making sure, Philippa.

Sarek took a deep breath. “I swear on Amanda Grayson’s life that what I have said was not trickery.”

Michael felt her chest tighten.

Michael, are you going to be okay?

Yes...I hope. I'll hang up if I have to.

“Okay, Sarek. I believe you. And Captain Georgiou–she is nothing if not protective, and she exaggerated the amount that you have affected my life negatively.”

Did I really?

Not as much as I would have him believe, but yes.

Hmph.

“My apologies for my behaviour. No caretaker should act like that to their ward.” Philippa felt Michael's anger rise.

Caretaker and ward. I am his daughter!

Michael, keep your head on straight.

“Did you try your hardest to support me, as a child? I can answer that for you, because I know you didn't. Did you think that letting me be human may have been a better choice?” Michael's voice sharpened. She felt Philippa's palm press between her shoulder blades, massaging the spot that pleasantly forced her to straighten her spine.

“I...believe I did everything in my power to raise you well,” Sarek responded.

Michael's expression softened. “I don't think you could do your very best. I was, after all, a small child, a human, with post-traumatic stress disorder, with anxiety, with demons. One who ended up in fights she didn't want to be in, who came home with broken bones.” Michael was thoroughly shuddering at this point, her hand entwined with Philippa's, grounding her.

Do you want to go, Michael? I think I can feel your nausea.

I need to finish this.

She took a shaky breath and continued. “But you tried. You tried what you thought was best. It wasn't, but it was something. You had two other children to take care of. It was a family, a disastrous one, but a family still.”

A long pause spread between them, Michael's ragged breathing compressing her in her quarters.

“And…and when Philippa came by and gave me a new family, I was integrated immediately, with no bias. I came to love the Shenzhou family as much as ours.”

Philippa, will you keep drawing on my back? It calms me down.

Of course, Michael. Her finger began drawing swirls across the plane of Michael's ribs.

“When I was on a mission as a lieutenant, on which my mental state deteriorated, I had a…breakdown, of a sort. My training failed me. Philippa noticed me, she came over and sat with me, kept me in her arms and talked to me until it passed, until her shoulder was thoroughly tear-stained, and I fell asleep on her lap while she held my hands and told me stories. She cared so much, she cares so much still. And she would do the same for any member of this crew, current or past,” Michael whispered.

Michael, you should leave. I think you're about to need my shoulder to cry on again.

I just--I need, I need, I need a minute more.

“You sat by me in silence until I could calm down, you even left when I cried. Which, I suppose, makes sense to a Vulcan. And of course I didn't want you to leave, so I stopped crying. You tried to make me Vulcan, and it didn't work, it forced me to focus everything I had on grades and school, it isolated me. And you did love me, I know that you did and you do. But there's no friend-making when you're always studying or learning, a hundred different things to keep yourself safe and make sure you didn't fall behind.” Michael inhaled at the end of her sentence, soothed by Philippa tracing constellations down her spine. Still, she felt her throat tighten and a stabbing pain settled at the bottom of her rib cage. Her hands shook and she stared at Sarek with wide eyes, who seemed to be in shock. He gaped at her for a moment.

Transporters, Michael.

“I have to leave. The transporters are being disabled for maintenance in fifteen minutes,” she blurted. Sarek nodded.

“Amanda and I are staying on Earth, in Paris for the entirety of your shore leave. You would be welcome to stay with us.” Michael raised a wobbly eyebrow.

“I am staying in Pulau Langkawi. With Captain Georgiou.”

An almost-silent oh came from Sarek’s direction. “Of course.”

“I am sorry, Sarek. I need time. Live long and prosper.” She hung up before Sarek could respond. The PADD flew across the room, clattering into the doorway. Michael collapsed. Philippa shot up to catch her.

Michael, I'm here, I love you, it's going to be okay because I'm here and I love you.

Michael's whole body shook, her eyes shut and spilling over with tears. She crumpled, muscles tense and Philippa's arms holding her tightly, breathing quick and jagged.

“Computer, turn off lights!” Philippa ordered. She flicked back the covers, and let Michael cling to her as she leant back.

Is there something I can do, Michael?

Just...please don't go, please?

Of course I won't go!

She shuffled around and managed to pull herself into bed with Michael, tugging the blankets to cover them. Philippa tightened her grip on Michael. She felt Michael's hands slip up into her hair, rhythmically stroking the waves with trembling fingers.

Michael, try and synch your breathing with mine, if you can. I think it'll help.

I-I'll try–please…

It's okay, my love. We can stay here as long as we need.

Philippa felt one of Michael's hands leave her scalp. It came to rest on her stomach, palm flat against her muscles, the pads of her quivering fingers across Philippa's ribs. Michael took a careful, slow breath, hovering on her exhale. It matched Philippa's measured breathing.

Just like that. Deep breath.

There's too much...there's too much–, it's-

Michael whimpered. Philippa's heart strained.

Do you need-uh...what's the word? Sen-sensory deprivation?

I–suppose that's...maybe? I just try to–focus on one thing-uh...

Michael buried her face farther into Philippa's neck. She felt the damp splotches on Michael's shaking cheeks, the gentle pressure on her abdomen lifting. Michael's fingers spread across Philippa's biceps, squeezing the stiff muscles.

Will you...sing for me?

Of course. I'm not good, though.

Philippa coughed. Her voice filled the silent room, a quiet whispering of Malay into Michael's ear. Philippa's throaty whisper slipped into Michael's mind.

Philippa...it’s helping. A lot.

Good.

The familiar inflections of Philippa's singing calmed Michael. Her shaking ebbed and faded, hands still clutching desperately at Philippa's shoulders. She sank her teeth into Philippa's collar in an attempt to mute her sobbing.

Philippa looked down at her partner, face contorted with screams, tears spilling everywhere and eyes bloodshot, holding onto Philippa as if she would be hurled into the vacuum of space if she let go, fabric balled in her mouth.

Time slowed.

Philippa's voice faded.

“Oh, Michael!” she breathed. Her hands reached for Michael's cheeks, pulling her closer. She pressed their foreheads together, the tip of their noses touching. Michael opened her eyes a crack, lashes heavy, tears trickling. She mirrored Philippa's grip. Her hands pulled carefully on Philippa's hair, curling the strands around her fingers.

“It's going to go away, Michael. And we'll go down to Pulau Langkawi and go swimming. And you're going to meet my mother, and she'll make you the most delicious laksa. Okay?” Michael nodded, a tiny jerk of her chin. “But first, we’re gonna stay right here until you feel better. And I'm not ever going to leave.” She adjusted her position to plant a kiss on Michael's vague smile, wiping away her tears.

Philippa. I love you.

I love you, Mikey. Do you mind...not chewing on my uniform?

Michael's weak chuckle as she spat out Philippa's collar mixed with the sound of shuffling blankets.

I'm so sorry. I didn't realise–I'm sorry.  

Are you feeling better?

I need…

“Fifteen minutes,” she finished. She melted into Philippa's torso, hands resting gently on her shoulders. Her toes curled and relaxed in her boots. Philippa could still feel Michael's erratic heartbeat, shaky breathing matching Philippa’s.

“Okay, Michael.” She nuzzled Michael’s forehead, inhaling the Starfleet soap that Michael insisted on using. Her grip left Michael’s face and dropped to her waist. She clung to the textured fabric across Michael’s back, fingers spread.

“You're...you don't mind waiting?” Michael mumbled, muffled by Philippa's jacket.

“Of course not. Michael, I love you, and I don't mind at all. Just let me know when you're ready.” Michael's tiny hum of happiness warmed Philippa's heart. She grinned into Michael's curls.

“And I'm making you take a picture in front of the eagle in Langkawi.”

•

Philippa poked Michael in the shoulder. “Put that book down, and get swimming! I'm going to drag you into the water with your clothes on.” She wrung out her hair over Michael's face, who sighed, leaning her head back and tilting her book away. “You can read on the Shenzhou.”

“It would be logical to continue reading. The end of the chapter is near.” Philippa groaned and slammed the book down into Michael's abdomen. She received a somewhat-insulting glare from Michael, who gingerly picked up the book and rested it on the arm of her chair while placing the bookmark in the correct position.

“Come on. The water is beautiful and no one’s around.”

“Because it's raining, Philippa.” Michael adjusted her umbrella to expose Philippa to the heavy drops.

“Like I said. The water’s beautiful, and no one’s around.” She grinned and wrapped her fingers firmly around Michael's wrist.

“Hey!” Philippa yanked her out of her seat, dragging her directly into the rain. Her bare feet dug into the sand. Michael sputtered as she inhaled a raindrop, desperately searching traction against the soggy ground, fully soaked. “Let me go!”

Never!

Philippa shifted her grip and bent down, slinging Michael over her shoulders. Michael's squeal hit Philippa's ear. She scrabbled at Philippa's stomach, trying to find her ticklish spot, feet flailing wildly to her right. She felt the gentle pressure of Philippa's arms holding her in place, wrapped around her neck and the inside of her knee. Michael's fingers made contact with the bottom of Philippa's ribcage. Philippa snorted and swung Michael's arms away, laughter creeping out of her mouth.

“Ah! You are ticklish!” Michael exclaimed, reaching with spidery fingers to her side.

“That was a mistake, Michael!” Philippa responded to Michael's attack by hurling her into the blue-grey waters. Michael surfaced and sputtered. Her loose pants floated around her legs, yellow contrasting sharply with the water. She yanked them off, revealing the bottom of her Fleet-issue wetsuit, and balled them up before tossing back to shore.

“No, that was a mistake, Philippa,” Michael teased. She lunged for Philippa's waist, who dodged it and sent Michael flying into the water. She wiped rain out of her eyes.

“You know, Michael,” Philippa began, sending a wave of water in Michael's direction, “by bathing suit I didn't mean a Starfleet wetsuit meant for caving.” She knocked Michael's leg out from under her and flicked water at her rain-soaked face.  “I meant a more...human bathing suit. That doesn't hide all your lovely muscles.” Michael paused her attack.

“You wanted me to wear something so you could...admire me?”

“I'm your girlfriend. I'm allowed to admire the fact that you could toss me halfway to Vulcan.” She avoided Michael's spray with a deft sidestep.

“As am I. Although you have made it...much easier.” Philippa's bathing suit showed her strength while still being rather modest, her stomach half-covered by the crimson bottoms. Michael brushed a finger across Philippa's raised abdominal muscles. “You look good in red.”

“You look good in anything, Michael.” Philippa's hand twisted into Michael's, and she raised them to her lips and pressed a kiss to Michael's toughened knuckles. She made eye contact, smirking, other hand coming to snatch Michael's elbow. Michael caught a whiff of Philippa's plan.

Philip–PHILIPPA!

Michael was tossed over Philippa's shoulder again, this time slamming into the sea headfirst. She forced her eyes open and made a desperate attempt to grab at Philippa's foot. It worked. Philippa tumbled into the water, Michael shooting up and towards the shore. She pulled herself back onto the sand, lying with her legs in the waves, letting the downpour soak into her bones. Philippa crawled up next to her, shaking out her hair.

“Feeling okay?” Philippa's head rested on Michael's ribs, with her arms wrapped around her waist. Michael's hand played with Philippa's soaked curls.

“I'm okay.” Michael's chuckle bounced Philippa's cheek. “I take that back. I'm cold.” Philippa rolled off Michael, shivering.

“Ditto.” She extended a hand to Michael. They headed back up to Philippa's cottage, Michael pausing to retrieve her pants and collect her book and umbrella. She huddled with Philippa under the waterproof dome. Their footprints filled with rain seconds after they left them in the sand. Philippa clutched the railing tightly as Michael opened the door, closing the umbrella under the protection of the the porch. Her book was held tightly to her chest.

“My mother would say we'd catch our death of cold.”

“Your mother would be correct,” Michael responded, throwing her book on the couch and leaning the umbrella up against a window. “The chances–”

“I don't need to hear statistics. I need dry clothes.” She tossed Michael a protein bar off the dinner table and gnawed on one as she dipped into their bedroom. Michael threw her soaked pants across a chair, biting off a huge chunk of her granola bar. She shivered.

“Do you want your sweater, Michael?” Philippa called, accompanied by the rustling of clothes.

“Yes, please, Philippa.” A lump of fabric shot out the door. Michael picked it up and untangled her warm sweater, a SHENZ shirt, socks, underwear, and Philippa's oversized fuzzy pyjama pants. Michael sighed. She slipped into the washroom and emerged a minute later, her hair still dripping across her sweater. Philippa stuck her head into the central room.

“Are you warming up?” Michael nodded and pushed the door open. Philippa promptly fell backwards into their bed, curling under the duvet. “Good. Join me?” Michael smiled and sat on the corner of the bed, stroking Philippa's forehead with damp fingers.

“You're so adorable,” Michael cooed, brushing her damp hair out of her face. Philippa covered her face with a pillow and groaned.

“No I'm not,” she grumbled, muffled by the sheets. “Stop.” Michael draped an arm over her shoulder.

“I think you deserve a little flattery, Philippa,” Michael said, smirking. Philippa made an unintelligible noise and threw her pillow at Michael. “Is that how you treat your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, retreating under the blanket. Michael ran her hand through the chunks of hair that peeked out.

“You're still adorable, Philippa. Accept it.” She peeled back the covers and kissed Philippa's forehead, tucking her legs in and sliding in right next to Philippa.

“Never,” Philippa groaned, nestling herself in Michael's arms. “You're the pretty one.” She felt Michael's heavy exhale.

We can both be adorable, Philippa.

Hmph.

Philippa's hand wrapped around Michael's face, her palm gently shoving her away. Michael detached Philippa's spidery fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. She took it with a smile.

“I love you, Philippa.” Michael whipped the stark white cover over them, sealing them inside a deflating dome. Philippa poked at the top of the impromptu tent.

“I love you too, ya dork,” Philippa admitted, nose bumping against Michael's neck.

Don't call me a dork, Philippa. It's unoriginal.

Okay. Nerd!

Seriously?

Philippa snorted and made herself sneeze. Michael chuckled, and tousled Philippa's hair.

“Dork,” Philippa grumbled, half asleep.

“Says the person with an honest-to-god telescope, Philippa,” Michael retorted.

“Oh, fuck off,” Philippa spat, with little force. Michael laughed at the unusually rude words.

I take it we won't be seeing your parents on our last day?

Michael's breath caught in her throat.

...no. I feel bad for Amanda, but I can't risk breaking down in front of Sarek.

All right. I'm sorry my mother wasn't around most of this week…

It's okay. I did meet her. She's a carbon copy of you, just thirty-odd years older.

“Hey! Should I be offended by that?”

No. Although there are some differences…

If you're about to make a dig at my cooking skills, I'm gonna force it down your throat.

Point taken.

Philippa snuggled into Michael. “Good night, Michael.”

“Philippa, it's noon.”

“Good night, Michael.” Michael sighed.  

Philippa's soft snoring filled the room a few minutes later.

[pilindiel]

The Promise of the World Pt. 6 |AO3|

Pairing: Victuuri

Rating: T

Word Count: 5113

Excerpt:

An unusual flare of anger and frustration runs through him and Yuuri stands, bones creaking, as he glares down at a fire that withers beneath his gaze.  How dare he? How dare he?!  This is not the time for games or trickery or secrets.  Yuuri wants to scream, wants to fight, wants to stop the stammering of his heart in his chest and all he thinks of is monster and every time he closes his eyes he sees that mass of feathers and teeth and hears the pain in Victor's voice and god Victor.  Victor is drifting from him and he's like water and Yuuri can't catch him; he slips through the crevices and cracks in Yuuri's wrinkled hands.

The castle lurches, lumbers and creaks as Yuuri tries to sleep, but the mattress pokes his back in all the wrong places and the ground adds unnecessary extra pressure. He slides in and out of consciousness, listening to the gentle crackling of Christophe's fire, until the front door clicks open and Yuuri is sure his heart stops. His body stiff.

Heavy, wet footsteps fall dully on the floor and Yuuri forces his eyes closed. Something tells him he shouldn't open them – a thickness that settles in the air and presses him down into the mattress.

Chistophe crackles, his voice hushed but alarmed. “This is bad,” he hisses, “You've gone too far, Victor.”

A stench fills the air as Christophe's answer, sickeningly dry and sweetly metallic. Yuuri's muscles don't even protest as he whips out of bed just in time to see Victor's hunched shadow disappear up the stairs. The smell burns his eyes, stings his throat, and Yuuri feels like gagging at the sight before him.

There's blood and feathers trailing to the steps, like a wounded bird tossed around by a hungry cat, and Yuuri reaches out to the dull gray plumage with shaking fingers.

It disintegrates at his touch, turning into a pile of putrid ash.

The light from the fire is gentle and warm, but none of it reaches Yuuri's chilled skin as he leans over the edge of his mattress, slipping his boots hurriedly onto his feet.

Everything feels distant like the world is both moving in slow motion and too fast. Yuuri isn't sure if his vision tunnels or if it's just an effect of his glasses in the dark as he makes his way up the stairs, but it is simultaneously too long a trek and too short a climb for his pounding heart.

The air on the second floor is dense like a fog; humid and weighty. It doesn't even seem like Yuuri's eyes adjust to the onslaught of darkness, he just knows instinctively where to go and lets invisible lines pull him further into the endless gloom.

He reaches Victor's bedroom door in what feels like no time at all, and his long fingers hesitate, skimming the handle.

“Victor?” he hazards, but his voice is far away and all Yuuri gets in response is the sound of rasping breath, like wind through the rafters.

Yuuri takes a moment. Braces himself.

The door opens with a gentle push and Yuuri nearly staggers back at what's inside.

Victor's room is cavernous, destroyed, empty. It's like a long cave now, his decorations and colorful knickknacks embedded in the mud walls and ceiling haphazardly, like they were thrown about in a tantrum.

Yuuri does not linger on them. The wind blows past him, through him, and he feels none of it.

He follows Victor's breathing, his rasping sighs, and walks on nothing.

Before him is a massive shape, writhing and curled in on itself. The feathers along its body are long, gray, and its huge chest heaves with every breath.

Yuuri's heart clenches, but he steps forward. “Victor?” he breathes, reaching a hand out, “Are you in pain?” The body shudders, shies away from his hand, and drags long claws against the wall. Yuuri swallows hard, heart hammering. “Tell me what's happening.”

“Go away...” The figure growls and Yuuri catches the sharp white of long teeth, protruding from a huge jowl. Everything inside him tells him to step back, to reanalyze and approach from a different angle, to get help but something spurs him on, forces his mouth to keep moving. Maybe if he does, he can keep Victor here.

“No, I'm not going away!” he says resoundingly, fists clenched at his sides, “I'm going to help you break this spell that you're under.”

The creature shifts, feathers fluttering and shimmering in an sickly way. “You?” he wheezes, voice grating his throat, “You can't even break your own spell.”

Yuuri's eyes burn, voice wavering. He can't stop anything he says, his mouth unwieldy and loose and heavy all at once. He barely hears himself over the roar of the wind and it's like he's watching it all play out below him even though he's still standing on the ground. “But you don't understand, I love y- ”

“You're too late,” Victor snarls. The wind whips at Yuuri's clothes, burns and shrivels his skin and Victor takes off into the night, leaving Yuuri alone at a gaping maw overlooking the darkness.

Yuuri's voice is raw, he's crying, but he can't move. “Victor!”

The clanging of water in old pipes wakes Yuuri with a start, but his heart is still back in that darkness, back in that dream, beating a terrifying rhythm in his chest. His old muscles complain when he suddenly stands, but his eyes are on the stairs, his breath caught in his throat.

He tries to remind himself to breathe, and distantly he can hear Yurio and J.J., complaining about something over the crackle of the fire.

“Victor just got in,” Christophe says. His voice is surprisingly clear and it cleanly cuts through Yuuri's panic. Yuuri sits back down on the lumpy mattress with a sigh, hand to his clammy temple.

A dream. Of course it was a dream.

Thank God.

“How did he look?” Yuuri asks hoarsely.

Christophe's sympathetic smile slips, his stare turning solemn. “Not good. You need to figure out to break this spell quick, Yuuri.”

Yuuri places his hands on his knees, watching as his fingers trace the patterns of his flannel pajamas. “He'll turn into a monster, won't he?” he murmurs.

“You know I can't give the details of the curse,” Christophe sighs, chin propped up on a half scorched log.

Yuuri curls his fingers, making a fist. “Do you know what Yakov said?” He looks up, meets Chistophe's hazel stare with a level one of his own. “He said Victor's heart was stolen by a demon.”

Chistophe slowly blows smoke out through his nose. “I can't tell you, Yuuri.”

An unusual flare of anger and frustration runs through him and Yuuri stands, bones creaking, as he glares down at a fire that withers beneath his gaze. How dare he? How dare he?! This is not the time for games or trickery or secrets. Yuuri wants to scream, wants to fight, wants to stop the stammering of his heart in his chest and all he thinks of is monster and every time he closes his eyes he sees that mass of feathers and teeth and hears the pain in Victor's voice and god Victor. Victor is drifting from him and he's like water and Yuuri can't catch him; he slips through the crevices and cracks in Yuuri's wrinkled hands.

Yuuri's eyes burn. The panic gives him some sort of haughty courage, even though his hands are shaking.

“What if I dump a bucket of cold water on you?” he threatens.

If Yuuri is fire, then Christophe is ice and his look is level and controlled, snuffing out Yuuri's flames. “If you drown me,” he warns, “Victor dies, too.”

An agitated, high-pitched shriek startles them both and J.J. flies down the stairs, Yurio hot on his heels. They both look like absolute messes: J.J. is sopping wet in what looks like different colours of dye, his purple shirt splotched with green and black and Yurio is covered in dust and flour. The taller of the two reaches the landing first and slides behind Yuuri, using him as a human shield, and Yuuri can already feel his temple prickle with an oncoming headache.

Yurio jumps down the last three steps, his hair tousled and expression murderous. He stands before Yuuri, clutching the backhand of a broom with vicious ferocity.

Before Yuuri can even ask why, J.J.'s muffled voice splutters into life behind him.

“Victor promised me years ago that I would get this castle!” he shouts petulantly.

Yurio's flush is so violent that Yuuri can see it even through the white powder streaked on his cheeks. “He did not!”

“Yes he did!” J.J. insists, gripping tightly to Yuuri's shirt, “He said if I found his heart then I could have the castle!”

Yuuri's breath catches at the word and he's reminded of Yakov's smugness the other day, the hot realization of exactly where Victor's heart lies.

His stomach flips and his eyes quickly dart to the ground, a flush burning his neck.

Christophe's fire snaps at his side.

Yurio bristles, face twisted into a terrifyingly upset pout. “Fine,” he spits, “Then where is it?”

J.J. tenses behind him and Yuuri feels the boy shift to his other foot. “It's here somewhere!”

Yurio puffs out his chest, brandishing the broom with more intent. “See?! I knew you were lying.”

“I know the location,” J.J. demands, “That should be enough.”

“That doesn't count!”

“Says who? You?”

Yurio's squawks in agitation and turns his furious glare to Yuuri, who swallows thickly at the menacing gaze.

“Tell him he's wrong, Yuuri,” Yurio commands, poking his weapon into Yuuri's personal space. J.J., on the other hand, yanks the back of Yuuri's shirt in protest; his cold, sticky fingers making Yuuri shudder in disgust.

“No way!” J.J. whines, “Yuuri knows I'm right. Right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath through his nose and pinches the bridge, trying desperately to stave off the pounding of his head. 'Good morning's were not in order, he supposes. Goodness knows what sort of horrid mess they left in their wake upstairs.

“Enough,” Yuuri barks. He jerks his poor shirt out of J.J.'s grasp and snatches Yurio's weapon out of his hands, giving both children admonishing stares. He purses his lips and immediately they shrink, eyes wide. They're ridiculous, the pair of them; two prideful children just far enough in age to butt heads.

Yuuri has half a mind to just send both of them upstairs to clean up whatever chaos is on the second floor, but he frowns at them both instead, hands on his hips. “Why don't we just ask Victor when he gets here?”

“Ask me what?”

Leaning against the banister is the wizard himself, white shirt loose around his chest and tucked into dark trousers that hug his hips tightly, showing off his beautifully long legs. His smile is a playful quirk of his lips, his eyes alight with mischief.

“Victor,” Yuuri breathes. Their gazes draw to each other like magnets and the way Victor's smile softens makes Yuuri breathless.

Victor glides down the rest of the stairs and Yuuri can't look away. Victor doesn't either, even as Makkachin bounds down the stairs and nearly slams into his knees.

All arguments are nullified when the boys see the large mess of fluff and fur, eyes full of wonder and excitement. Makkachin rushes over to them immediately, barreling headlong into J.J.'s chest and knocking him to the ground with a squeal of surprise.

“We are keeping this dog,” Yurio proclaims resolutely as J.J. struggles beneath Makkachin's weight.

Victor's strides are smooth as he makes his way to Yuuri's side. This close, Yuuri can see the gradient of green to blue in his eyes, the plumpness of his lips and the long flutter of his silver lashes. The look in Victor's face is fond, gentle, and Yuuri wants to fall into it, knowing full well Victor would catch him.

Yuuri swallows and Victor's eyes track the action before skimming back up to his face.

Victor reaches up with a graceful hand and brushes some of Yuuri's long bangs away from his forehead, his fingertips grazing his scalp. The movement is casual, almost automatic in the ease Victor does it, but it makes Yuuri's heart stutter manically, stomach shaking his insides.

Victor's gaze doesn't waver and his hand lingers, fingertips softly outlining the shape of Yuuri's cheek down to his jawline. The feeling is like static, delicate electricity sparking from Victor's skin to Yuuri's, and Yuuri's mouth parts on a silent gasp, his body hot.

Victor's expression changes almost imperceptibly, but there's a shift in the corner of his eyes, a different pinch to his brow. It tugs sharply at something in Yuuri's chest.

He looks mournful when he pulls away, taking Yuuri's breath with him as he drops his hand.

Victor suddenly turns to the group, beaming, and Yuuri's skin feels cold with the loss of contact. “We've got a lot of work to do,” Victor announces, “We're moving!”

“Moving?” J.J. asks, resigned to his fate as Makkachin's new favourite napping place as the dog curls up on his back comfortably.

“Yakov is hot on our trail so we have to hurry.” He motions for Yurio to follow him and the boy lights up, shaking some of the dust out of his hair before pulling a piece of chalk out of his pocket. Yuuri raises an eyebrow, but Victor gives him a playful smirk before practically skipping down the stairs to the awaiting crisp air outside.

Everything that happens next feels like a blur. One moment Yuuri is cleaning up from breakfast and the next Victor and Yurio have returned, telling everyone to sit on the dining room table. The dutifully do so and J.J. wraps his arms around Makkachin's fuzzy neck to keep him from jumping off.

Victor draws a symbol on the floor with a flourish and Yuuri can only see part of it from his perch on the table. It's like a segmented circle, with an eye-like shape on its upper half and sharp lines drawn towards the center.

With a satisfied smile, Victor stands and strides over to the fireplace, hefting the steel ash shovel in his hand.

Christophe crawls onto the metal with a teasing grin, flames licking towards the ceiling. “Be gentle with me.”

Victor smirks in response, standing at the center of the circle. The air crackles, but Victor is poised and pristine. “On my mark,” he says, extending an arm.

It starts with the air. It's electric and pulsing, thrumming like a heartbeat and the wind picks up, swirling around the room and tugging at their clothes. Victor is a blur of colour: blues, purples, grays and whites that revolve around him and spread through the room and up into the rafters. The sounds follow, like air being blown into a balloon but faster and it bows the wood of the castle and stretches the floor with cracks and groans. Yuuri watches as the walls expand, the ceiling raises, the ground shifts. Colour changes around them, all circulating outwards from Victor and Christophe's combined power, and Yuuri is stuck in his seat as new furniture slams on the floor and pops into existence around them. It's mesemerizingly chaotic and impossible to follow and just as soon as it starts it ends, punctuated by the blaring of a train that rattles a brand new window.

Yuuri lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and closes his eyes for a moment, coming down from the tension.

Wait.

A train?

J.J. and Yurio are up in seconds, jumping around their new home with exuberance at the size and the furniture and the courtyard, but Yuuri slides of the table slowly, his feet tapping on the shining walnut floor.

He makes his way over to the window in a daze, air caught in his lungs, and puts a hand on the cool glass to steady himself.

Narrow alleyways and thin streets. The clanging metal tram. The red-brick homes and their clay gabled roofs.

The aroma of fresh baking breads and the quiet hum of the afternoon streets nearly bring Yuuri to his knees and he clutches the window frame, throat tight with emotion. “But...But this is – ”

Victor's voice cuts through the air, cuts through his thoughts with his smooth voice and lilting excitement, and Yuuri turns to him through his haze. “Over here, Yuuri!” The way his mouth forms around Yuuri's name feels unreal, too intimate, but Yuuri is drawn to him anyway, like magnets beneath his skin pulling him ever closer to Victor's gravity. Victor's smile is wide, incredibly pleased, and his hand is on the handle of a door by the stairs. He opens it with a gentle push and Yuuri's brain is a muddle of confusion and flustered energy. “I added on another bedroom,” Victor says as Yuuri stumbles into the room on unsteady feet.

It's a bedroom. It's his bedroom. It's his little bedroom from his little hat shop and that's his desk overlooking the streets below and his window that rattles and all Yuuri can do is gasp over the lump in his throat as he looks around, staring at the same wispy drapes and the same downy comforter.

Victor is kind enough to not encroach on this moment, staying in the doorway until Yuuri is ready to face him, and Yuuri is grateful for it. He's not sure he'd be able to say anything right now without breaking his carefully controlled facade. Instead, he lets his eyes wander, fingers dragging against the grain of the built in desk and the small pile of unopened boxes on top.

It feels like an eternity before Yuuri finds his voice, but Victor stays all the same; ever patient. “Why'd you do this?” he murmurs.

“So we'd have a room that suited you,” Victor explains quietly. Yuuri's blood rushes to his ears and he knows they're turning red. “Do you like it?”

Yuuri wrings his hands, fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeve. Victor's kindness is too much, his appreciation too deep. Yuuri isn't worth this, surely? All he can do is clean and make hats. It can't be more than a thank you.

His stomach churns, his eyes downcast.

He's not worth all of this.

“Of course,” he mutters, “It's perfect for a housekeeper.”

Yuuri doesn't need to see Victor's face. He doesn't want to see the disappointment. The disgust as Yuuri's skin shrivels and ages. It's bound to be there; that quiet revulsion he feels whenever he looks at himself or catches his reflection. Everyone else must feel it, too, even someone as bright as Victor. “I got you some new clothes too, but you can open them later,” Victor says. His voice is light as he drags Yuuri out of his introspection, and he motions for Yuuri to follow.

Victor leads him to the front door with a spring in his step and when he turns his smile is eager, eyes alight. “See the new color on the dial?” he asks and Yuuri nods dumbly, watching as Victor twirls it to a comforting red. “It's a new portal.”

Victor swings the door open and the light breeze that blows through ruffles the edge of Yuuri's shirt.

“It's a present for you.” Victor smiles and there's that fond look again, that softness to his eyes. He extends a hand towards him, lithe fingers reaching out for a companion. “Come see.”

There's a barrier between them that broke at the palace. Some quiet understanding that touch was too far, that Yuuri couldn't handle it, that Victor didn't want it. But it's easier now to accept neither of those hypotheses are truths, and Yuuri takes Victor's outstretched hand in his own, letting the warmth coarse through him. Victor's smile crinkles at his eyes and oh, Yuuri has to look away from its brightness with a small smile of his own, a delicate flush to his cheeks.

They walk through into another world.

Yuuri swears it must be magic, because from his vantage point they've strolled straight into a painting.

Victor opened the door to a valley of wild flowers, all pinks and yellows and soft reds with sweet aromas, littered as far as the eye can see. They're sheltered by tall mountains, snow-caped with encroaching forests, and they're high enough that clouds roll lazily through the field, caught on the wind.

There are pockets of water that glitter like glass, tiny lakes that reflect the calming blue of the sky and the swell of the mountains and the tapestry of flowers.

Yuuri doesn't even know if he's breathing, too lost in the colours and the warmth and the man beside him, who gently squeezes his hand.

“You like it?” Victor wonders, leading Yuuri further in, “It's my secret garden.”

“It's incredible!” Yuuri exclaims, trying not to bend any of the bright stems as they walk, “Did you use your magic to make this?”

“Only a little,” Victor hums, “Just to help the flowers grow.”

Yuuri has no idea how far they walk or for how long – time barely seems to pass when the ground beneath their feet is peppered with such exquisite beauty and they're protected on all sides by rolling hills.

Or maybe it's the man holding Yuuri's hand that makes time stand still, that continues to make Yuuri's stomach flutter, that makes his chest warm with every pulse of his heart. He catches Victor staring at him more than once, an appreciative glance from the side, and it makes his ears burn pleasantly.

Yuuri decides to sit on the grass after a while, to admire the rolling sky and soft hills from a different angle. He's so at peace, so comfortable. He could spend hours here and not feel a second of it.

Victor sits next to him in moments. There's so little space between them, thighs pressed together on the springy ground. There is still a childlike hesitation to their touches even though the barrier was leveled, and Yuuri feels Victor's pinkie poke his like it had weeks ago, a quiet question that Yuuri answers with a nudge of his own. Yuuri's skin still warms as Victor's hand rests over his, thumb brushing his knuckles affectionately, and Yuuri keeps his gaze on the distant mountains, his smile thoughtful.

“Yuuri?” The way Victor says his name is elegant and soft like a whisper, like he's worried he'll break Yuuri from his trance.

“It all seems so familiar yet I know I've never been here before,” Yuuri breathes, “It's lovely.”

A breeze blows Yuuri's bangs out of his face, rustles the grass. Victor's smile softens in adoration.

“Yes,” Victor murmurs breathlessly, not looking at the hills or the sky or the flowers, “Incredibly.”

Yuuri has no idea how long they stay like that – it could have been minutes or hours, but when Victor squeezes his hand and shifts, Yuuri turns to him.

His chest lurches.

The space between them shrinks, becomes warmer, liquefies. There's something intense about Victor's eyes, something brewing beneath the storm of his irises and he tightens his grip on Yuuri's hand almost painfully. There's something he's trying to say – Yuuri can see it build on his tongue, swell in his chest, a weight that Victor can't dislodge from his throat. Yuuri's skin boils when Victor leans closer, when the world around them stops and Victor is all Yuuri can see, is all he can focus on.

What are you trying to say?

Yuuri's heart is thudding like an off-beat drum and his eyes widen when Victor's other hand cups his elbow, keeping so little space between them that Yuuri can feel the way Victor says his name, a rasping puff of air caught in the space between their lips.

Victor is looking at him but Yuuri can see his mind is clouded. There's something stopping him from finding solace and comfort in the intensity of his expression.

Yuuri's face burns, chest aching. Victor squeezes Yuuri's elbow, like if he lets go Yuuri will float away, and Yuuri so desperately wants to tell him that that could never happen, that Yuuri's not going anywhere.

There's a loneliness in Victor's gaze, a desperation. Yuuri wants to reach up and smooth his thumbs over the strain in Victor's face, to ease the pressure, but his body is frozen, breath stuck in his lungs. He waits for Victor to move.

It's all he can do.

Victor closes his eyes and lets out a shaking breath that caresses Yuuri's face. His fingers curl around Yuuri's and he pulls Yuuri's hand to his lips, pressing a hard kiss to Yuuri's knuckles. Victor's brow furrows, eyes shut tightly, and though Yuuri's pulse thrums at the contact, he can't help but feel a chill.

Victor pulls Yuuri to his feet, his head spinning.

What was that? What was that?

Victor leads him further down the hill and Yuuri's jumbled mind can only focus on their clasped hands. Victor's smile is there but it's distant, a mask.

What were you trying to say, Victor?

Victor slows to a stop and Yuuri stops beside him, following Victor's gaze to where a small bungalow sits, made of faded sandstone and overlooking a large lake. There's a small water wheel that creaks as it spins and a tiny set of stairs that leads down into the grass and flowers. Though the colour is a contrast the little shack fits, Yuuri realizes, snuggled between a well trodden pat on either side where countless treks have receded the line of vegetation.

“What a cute cottage,” Yuuri breathes.

“That was my secret hideaway,” Victor replies. He smiles more easily as he talks, threading his fingers with Yuuri's. His look remains distant though; trapped in memories of his past. Yuuri tries to remind himself not to stare. “I spent a lot of time here by myself when I was young.”

“You were alone?” Yuuri wonders. The expression that crosses Victor's face is fond, and there's a tenderness there that seems to tell Yuuri his assumption is correct.

“My uncle was a wizard and gave me this place as my private study,” he explains, “Now you can come here whenever you'd like.” He flashes Yuuri a smile but it's reticent, reserved.

He pulls away, to lead Yuuri down the hill and closer to those memories, but something settles heavily in Yuuri's chest and he hesitates. Victor's arm falls limp at his side and he turns, concerned.

“What's the matter?”

Yuuri can feel himself withdraw, can feel the tension in his skin and the closing of his throat, but he pushes through them despite the wavering of his voice. “It's...Y-You're scaring me.” The look on Victor's face tugs at his heart but Yuuri presses on, tripping over his words. “I-I have this w-weird feeling that you're going to leave.” Yuuri glances nervously at Victor's expression, but it's unreadable. He stares at the grass by their feet. “Please, j-just...tell me what's going on. I don't care if you're a monster.”

Victor's smile returns to him, like he is always pleasantly surprised by what Yuuri has to say, and walks back into Yuuri's personal space.

“I'm just setting things up so you can live a comfortable life, Yuuri,” he says, but his voice is sunless and hollow and so full of fake cheer that it makes Yuuri's stomach twist. “With all the flowers in this valley you could easily open up a flower shop. Right? I'm sure you'd be good at it!”

“So you are going away.” Victor's face falls and it's all the answer he needs. Yuuri bows his head, inches it closer so his head nudges Victor's shoulder. “Please, Victor,” Yuuri murmurs, “I know I'm not...” He swallows. “I'm not pretty but I – ”

Victor surges forward, a hand gripping Yuuri's shoulder and Yuuri's eyes fly to his face, wide and honest. “Yuuri, Yuuri. You're beautiful.” Victor seizes Yuuri's hand, holds it tightly in the space between their chests, and Yuuri keeps his eyes fixed on them as his shrivel, skin bunching up and wrinkling.

Ugly.

Yuuri can't stop the sting to his eyes, even as Victor tightens the hold he has on him. “I'm glad one of us thinks so.”

Victor's expression pains, crestfallen, and Yuuri stares at the ground, watching the wind caress petals of purple and white.

Yuuri can see the effort it takes for Victor to tear his gaze away and it feels like Victor takes Yuuri's heart with him, leaving him empty and hollow.

The clanging of metal and steel causes Yuuri to jump and the loud whirring of engines disturbs their silence, punching the air.

A huge airship careens slowly over the mountains into their quiet little sanctuary, lurching through the sky and cutting the air with its heavy sound. The smoke it billows out is thick and black and Yuuri's nose scrunches up at the smell.

It breaks through their clandestine getaway, and the restlessness between them shifts to something far more severe.

“What is that thing doing out here?” Victor growls, “Looking for more cities to burn?”

“Is it the enemy's or one of ours?” Yuuri murmurs.

“What difference does it make?” Another appears on the horizon, chugging engine loud and metallic, and Victor snakes an arm around Yuuri's waist. Yuuri isn't sure whether it's for his own resolve or Victor's. “Those stupid murderers,” Victor breathes, “We can't just let them fly off with all those bombs.”

Victor swipes his arm through the air and suddenly there are alarms blaring from the battleship, the wings of it snapping in an off kilter rhythm. It slows, but doesn't stop.

“What's happening?” Yuuri gasps, “What did you do?”

“Just messed with it,” Victor replies unhelpfully. The smirk on his face is strained and Yuuri grabs his arm before Victor can covet it behind his back. It's burned, blackened, and flecks of dull gray feathers poke painfully through his skin.  YUuri's stomach lurches.

“Victor – ”

“Uh oh,” Victor titters, “Here they come.” Creatures fly from the ship, bodies a mass of black goop and flares of colour, with wings that are more metal than flesh. They swarm in the sky, pinpoint their targets, and dive.

Yuuri doesn't even have time to suck in a breath, no time to let his nerves and fears get to him, before Victor has him in the air. His words don't reach Yuuri at all; fighting against the rush of the wind and the pounding of Yuuri's ears. Yuuri hears Victor say his name, what feels like the whisper of a kiss to his temple, and in seconds Yuuri is floating through the front door of the castle, tumbling onto the steps.

Shocked and overwhelmed, all Yuuri can do is stare. The dial clicks to yellow as Yurio and J.J. return, but all Yuuri hears is the rattling of the windows and the way his name forms on Victor's lips.

[corvid-knight]

Sealskin

Jake tries to return a coat he happened to find, with some...interesting results. As in, he's now engaged to a selkie and a fae prince. He's not sure how to handle this.

(Backstory on how Jake met Dirk and Cronus in the Fantasystuck AU.)

(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13524405)

You just wanted to return a lost item of clothing, and of course it isn't that simple.

First off, you've no idea who the fur coat belongs to. It's too large for you, it's heavy and the fur is snowy and soft and smells like clean salt water and the wind off the ocean, but that doesn't help with identification. It looks like it cost a pretty penny, though, and you intend to see it returned to its proper owner.

In the two days that you try to think of exactly how you'll do that, you find yourself sleeping with it by your bed, then giving up and using it as a blanket. The owner might not be happy with you for that, but it's extremely warm, and you dream of flying when you sleep wrapped in it.

(...or perhaps the dreams are of swimming, darting through the deep water in pursuit of shimmering shining things. You're not sure.)

Your cousin's the one who suggests the solution to your dilemma. He might be not-quite-ten, but he's a bright boy, in regards to most things. He tells you that mages and sorcerers can find anything, Jake, anything, and gives you a wide bucktoothed grin. For that bit of wisdom you give him the cactus you've just finished replanting in the sky-blue flowerpot you know he's liked since you made it, and start thinking about what kind of magic-talented people are available to you.

Since you have a distinct lack of funds, the choice isn't a difficult one. The lady of shadows who lives by the edge of town and takes in every stray cat that sits outside her house and laments to her agrees to trade half your stock of catmint for a tracing spell. She hands you a stone and tells you to turn until it grows warm in your hand, then go the way you're facing. The enchantment only lasts a few days, she says, and you thank her and reassure her that it won't take you days.

Actually, it takes perhaps an hour and a half before you track down the correct house and stand outside the door. You almost forget to slip the coat off and drape it over one arm as if you weren't wearing it at all, before you knock.

The man that answers is probably not human. You have little experience with fae or other magical creatures, but his eyes are wide and violet, absolutely stunning against skin the color of good dark honey. Pure humans don't have eyes that color. His white shirt might be plain but it's definitely not poorly made or cheap, and his teeth are the sharp points of a meat-eater as he smiles at you and runs one hand through wet black hair.

"Uh..." Gods, he's lovely. What were you here for again? "Sorry, hello, I believe I've found something that belongs to you!" And you hold out the coat, offering it up with both hands.

He doesn't take it immediately, which is...strange. Stranger still is the look that passes across his face—would that be fear? It's replaced with confusion, and then, as he looks up to meet your eyes, what looks like delight. "Dirk?" he calls, looking back over his shoulder. (His voice is as attractive as the rest of him, rougher than the honey of his skin but still somehow smooth, deeper than yours even though this man is slim and barely a head taller than you.) "Dirk, chief, you need to get your ass out and see who's brought me something back."

"I just wanted to bring your coat back," you protest as the lovely man wraps an arm around your shoulders and guides you through the door. (He still hasn't taken said coat out of your arms, and you can't help but hug it nervously to your chest.) "There really doesn't need to be a fuss—"

"Cronus?" A second man steps through the door into the next room, and you abruptly lose all ability to do anything, including breath. If the man who answered the door—Cronus—is lovely, this one is...oh, gods, you would gladly die, looking at him. He's shirtless, pale-skinned, all angles and planes that fall together into a body that makes you long to see what his loose trousers hide. His hair is golden waves pulled back into a loose ponytail, wisps escaping to frame his angular face and accent his amber eyes.

He's smiling at you. His mouth quirks up at one corner, and you can't think.

"Babe, shit, you're—" Cronus begins, in a tone that suggests alarm even though there's obviously no reason to worry with this beautiful golden being in the vicinity.

The aforementioned beautiful being looks down at himself, sighs, very calmly says, "Fuck. In my defense, I wasn't expecting a human," and...does something. You aren't sure what. It somehow lessens the aura of beauty around him, though, and you remember what lungs are again. "Sorry."

"I'm, um." Words are a bit harder. "Hello."

"He's got my coat," Cronus points out, and steps back quickly as you try to offer it to him again. "Hold up, kiddo, I think you'd better hold onto that for a minute."

The other one—Dirk? You think Cronus called him Dirk, although your memory's abruptly a bit hazy on the events of the last few minutes'—tilts his head, examining you with eyes that might be made of molten gold. "He does have your coat."

"Should I take it?"

"I mean..." Dirk shrugs, mouth twisting up into an amused smile. "He is cute. But then again, I don't think he knows exactly what he's doing."

"That's quite true," you feel the need to add. "I'm. Erm. Confused."

The two of them trade glances that seem to exchange a wealth of information that you're not privy to, and then Cronus steps back to stand next to Dirk, facing you.

"I'm—" Dirk begins, then shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and starts again. "My name is Dirk Strider, prince of the Summer Fae, currently in chosen exile. This—"

"My name is Cronus Ampora." The dark-haired man looks both determined and afraid, and you're not sure why. "Consort—"

"Husband," Dirk corrects gently.

"...yeah. Husband of the prince of the Summer Fae. Child of the sea, who the sea's disowned for losing half my nature." He huffs, gesturing at the coat in your arms with the hand that's not clutching Dirk's. "Which you're kinda holding."

"Uh..." You're still lost, not that you intend to say that. Dirk's fae, alright, you don't—

Wait. Wait.

He just told you his name. A prince of the fae freely told you his name, without coercion or trickery.

"...oh, dear." You hear the woefully inadequate words slip out of your mouth.

Dirk's eyes widen, and even though he's a good five feet away from you it's only a heartbeat before he's standing at your side, taking hold of your arm and offering support that you may actually need. "Are you all right?" he asks, and you don't know what to make of the genuine-seeming concern in his voice.

"I don't want your name!" It comes out as an embarrassing almost-wail, and you try to cover your face with your hands. This leads to your remembering that you're still holding the fur coat. Without thinking you raise it enough to bury your face in it, taking a calming breath of its salty scent. This muffles your voice a bit when you continue. "I'm no one, why in the bloody fucking hell would you give me that?"

"...mostly because you just came in and proposed to my husband." Dirk's voice is calm and full of amusement, but those words still snap your head up out of the soft fur so fast it actually makes you dizzy.

I've offended one of the fair folk, you think. Gods, I'm dead.

He's smiling. It's reassuring. Cronus is beside him, and he just looks excited.

Again, you hold out the coat. "Please just take this and let me go home." Your voice is shaking and you can't do anything about that. "My apologies, I'm so very sorry, I swear I'll make amends in any way you want me to..." Please don't turn me into an animal. Or kill me. I don't want to die!

Dirk and Cronus exchange another look. Then the former pulls you into the other room, giving you a gentle push towards a chair and taking a seat himself.

"So," he says, leaning towards you a little and hurriedly reversing the movement as you can't help but flinch. "Cronus could take his coat back from you, but then you'd need to either stay here, or he'd have to go home with you."

"Why?" You don't understand anything.

"I'm a selkie," Cronus offers. "That's—"

"...I know what it is, thank you." That may have been rude. You sigh and adjust the heavy coat in your lap—that is sealskin, isn't it? Gods, you can't believe you didn't realize that. And if a mortal returns a selkie's coat, it is considered as a binding proposal of marriage. Oh, dear. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...um. Intrude?"

"You haven't." They both say it at precisely the same moment. It's Cronus who continues. "Sweetheart, if I'm going to be bound to another lover, you seem like a pretty damn good option. Attractive, obviously a good person, hot, pretty, lovely—"

"Cro, stop. You're going to make the poor human implode." Dirk stifles a laugh.

"Thank you." How on earth do you stop blushing? "Dirk..."

"Yes?"

"You're not...upset about this?"

He just shrugs, glancing over at Cronus before focusing on you. "I mean, if you try to take him from me against his will, I'm more than willing to call all the forces I have at my disposal down on your head, but if you just want to date him, marry him, love him?" Another shrug, and a smile that almost sets you at ease again. "You gain two partners, rather than one. Assuming you'd like me as well as him."

"Yes." Oh, gods, you didn't mean to say that out loud, but you might as well commit. "Um. If you're sure you're all right with that state of affairs?" Okay, so that does not qualify as committing, but you're still rattled.

"Absolutely all right." Dirk nods.

Cronus gives you a sharp-toothed grin and shifts to the edge of his chair, leaning forward to take your hand and raise it to his lips. (You don't flinch this time.) His skin is cool when he presses a kiss against the back of your hand. "Keep the coat," he says softly. "Least until you work out what the hell you're getting into. We don't want to trap you in something, do we?"

"Uh..." You're not sure what the right answer is, and it's difficult to think anyway when he's holding your hand oh-so-gently. But you do think of something that it's very important you say. "...my name is Jake. Jake English."

"Jake," Cronus repeats, and you can see Dirk mouthing your name behind him. "English. Good name."

You don't know how to answer that, either, but you smile at him.

You leave several hours later with the coat around your shoulders and an order for half a dozen potted rosemary seedlings in your pockets. The next time you stay longer, and eventually there is a night when you don't leave at all, but sleep in the spare room. After that, there's a morning when you wake up with the fae sprawled out across half the bed and the selkie curled up as close as he can possibly get to your side, and—months further along—mornings when you wake up in a tangle of long limbs and discarded clothes wound up in the blankets. By that time the coat stays hung by the door, owned by all of you equally, and you've moved everything you own that isn't plants to their house, and converted your smaller house to a shop where you sell plants that may or may not carry the ambient magic of your partners.

All you meant to do was return a coat.

You're not sure you really ever manage to do that, but this is a much better outcome.