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quietly-sleeping · 2 months ago

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@artsarasp i've been trying to work on this for two weeks now lmao. I'm calling it done.

Sitting across from the being occupying the body of his oldest friend was a daunting experience, the memories of the “Scenario Pusher” haunted him. He could still feel it, the shattering of Xuan Su, the shattering of his soul.

However, it wasn’t nearly as painful as the brief flash of what caused him to draw his sword, the large box with a short note. All it said was a name, but that was enough. Qi crackled through his meridians as his mind lingered on the vision of the box. The being was staring at him, it wasn’t smiling anymore.

[Yue Qingyuan should not take any more Small Scenario Pushers.] The being was as close to frowning as Yue Qingyuan had seen it. It almost looked worried. “You have said that if we take these missions, you will restore Shen-shidi.” Yue Qingyuan nearly didn’t recognize his voice. It was flat, cold, broken.

[This system cannot allow Yue Qingyuan to continue.] The being was unnaturally still, even before Shen Qingqiu’s last major qi deviation, he was always moving, waving his fan, running his fingers along the edges of his robes. The Shen Qingqiu after the qi deviation was always moving as well, the being that wore his shidi’s face was still.

“Why.” Yue Qingyuan just wanted this to stop, Mu Qingfang, Liu Qingge, and even Shang Qinghua had seen things because of this creature. Yue Qingyuan had never seen Mu Qingfang like that before, distraught and inconsolable, sobbing about a disaster and injuries he couldn’t heal. [This system has calculated that if Yue Qingyuan continues to take missions, he will continue to act OOC. This system cannot allow this.]

Yue Qingyuan ignored the bite of his nails as they dug into the meat of his palms, “You’ve said this before, what does OOC mean?” Calm, he will remain calm, he will not lash out at the being holding his shidi’s body captive. [OOC is the act of a character acting outside of its setting.] The being’s face slowly returned to the unnatural smile it typically boasted.

“Is that what we are to you? Characters in a story?” Yue Qingyuan couldn’t understand this being. [This system cannot answer that.] The being had its smile back, but the longer Yue Qingyuan stared, the more certain he was that he could see something in its face twitching.

“Do you truly believe that we are static characters unable to change?” Yue Qingyuan barely held back the roiling fury in his body, the emotion was choking him, and his skin stung as his nails drew blood. [Characters are capable of change, however, large leaps of setting…can cause…]

The being’s words stuttered to a stop, eyes blank as it stared at something over Yue Qingyuan’s shoulder. [Warning!] Yue Qingyuan flinched back as the being’s voice changed, so much louder and higher in pitch. [Unknown power is interfering with–] Yue Qingyuan jerked up, the being was choking on blood.

“Call Mu Qingfang!” Yue Qingyuan yelled. Disciples were waiting outside the room and startled into action at the call of their Sect Leader, their feet thumping heavily on the ground as they rushed away. Blood was dripping from the being's mouth and eyes as it choked. Yue Qingyuan lunged around the table to reach for the being.

But once his hand touched its robes, Yue Qingyuan’s vision stuttered.

He wasn’t standing in the same room. Instead, he was standing in a butchered version of the bamboo house. He couldn’t recognize the materials or style the bamboo house had been combined with, it didn’t matter though, since he could see the man sitting on the bed.

The man wore the greens and teals of Qing Jing, Yue Qingyuan lunged closer, desperate to touch and confirm it was Shen Jiu. However, as his hands landed on the man’s arms, all he could see were the differences between this man and the Shen Jiu he grew up with. His eyes, silently shedding tears as he stared down at something glowing in his lap, were brown, his lips, red and bitten, were fuller than Shen Jiu’s.

Something jerked in Yue Qingyuan’s chest as he realized this man, the man inside Shen Jiu’s body, wasn’t the Shen Jiu Yue Qingyuan knew. This was a stranger. Yue Qingyuan’s hands flexed on his arms, fighting between the instinct to let go and the desire to shake him for information. Where was his Xiao Jiu, how long had this stranger been in his body?

No, Yue Qingyuan knew how long, knew it with a certainty that rotted in the pits of his stomach. Yue Qingyuan’s hands tightened on the man’s arms, he didn’t know this man, this imposter wearing his shidi’s skin. However, as the man shuddered and curled over the glowing book in his lap, something in Yue Qingyuan reacted.

It was an instinct ingrained in him since childhood since he could recognize the youth clinging to the faces covered in dirt, since he knew that the way they grew up wasn’t right. His hands curled around the man’s back, bringing this fake to lean against his chest.

Yue Qingyuan very rarely felt revulsion when faced with people. Yet, with this man that he knew under the guise of his shidi, he couldn’t help the sickening jolt in his chest. Even as he smoothed a hand down the crying man’s back, he wished that instead of this man, it was Shen Jiu. He wished that the person they were struggling to free from the being was the man who truly owned the name Shen Qingqiu.

“Why,” The man’s voice was rough, torn from silence the tears he’d shed. Yue Qingyuan grimaced, carefully rubbing the man’s back as hands came to lightly grip the front of his robes. “Why am I reading this endless tragedy? It makes no sense.” The man whispered. It didn’t seem like he expected Yue Qingyuan to respond, so he kept silent.

Yue Qingyuan was staring at him, looking at the man’s vulnerable neck, it wouldn’t take much effort. Damaging the man while in his mind would deal a heavy blow. Would it be enough to allow Shen Jiu to take his body again?

Was Shen Jiu even around? Had he left for good, like he thought Yue Qi had? Yue Qingyuan would deserve it, he’d deserve to be left behind because for months, years he had not known it wasn’t his shidi in his body.

No. He did know, he knew this imposter took over Qing Jing Peak and his shidi’s body and said nothing. Because he was a coward, because he was selfish. He said nothing because he wanted the Shen Qingqiu who let him get close, who let him into his home without viciously digging his fingers into gaping wounds. The sect leader’s hand twitched from where it rested on the man’s back, the thought barely forming before the room around them shook.

He couldn't help the way his arms tightened around the man deliriously muttering to himself. It seems the qi deviation was getting worse, since blood was seeping through the walls, dripping steadily down them as the room shook again. Yue Qingyuan had pulled the man to his feet, keeping one arm around him as he eyed the effects of the qi deviation.

Harming the man currently in the body of his shidi would only harm the body. Leaving the body’s cultivation unstable and potentially harming Shen Jiu’s chances of retaking his body. Hopefully, Mu-shidi has already reached them and is working to stabilize the qi deviation. Though, Yue Qingyuan thought with a grimace, he’d be thoroughly lectured on the dangers of touching a cultivator going through a qi deviation without knowing what kind it was or what caused it.

Yue Qingyuan shuffled the man in his arms away from the bleeding walls as the room shuddered, glancing around he froze as he heard something other than the mumbles of the other man. Don’t you dare.

It hissed in his mind, the familiar tone freezing the blood in Yue Qingyuan’s veins. “Xiao Jiu?” He whispered, his eyes flicking around the room, desperate to catch a glance of the man’s silhouette.

Don’t call me that. The voice snapped, it was him. Yue Qingyuan could feel everything in him relax for a moment. Even as the voice of his shidi hissed at him. It was fine, anything to prove Shen Jiu was still around.

Now get out of here. Yue Qingyuan couldn’t see Shen Jiu, he could only see the blood dripping down the walls as they shuddered. “Shen-shidi,” He forced out, “Where are you?” Are you blind as well as stupid, Zhangmen-shixiong? The mocking voice slithered down his spine as he felt something grasp the back of his robes. It wasn’t the man in his arms, he was still clinging to the front of his robes with both hands.

Yue Qingyuan went to turn, to see his shidi again after so long, but Shen Jiu’s voice stopped him dead. Don’t look. The hand tightened, and he could feel the tips of the fingers scratch against him.

Listen to me. Shen Jiu said as if Yue Qingyuan wasn’t hanging onto every word, breathing them in almost greedily. You will leave here, and you will tell no one that it isn’t me you are trying to get back into control of this body. His voice was as close to calm as Yue Qingyuan had heard it in years. It lacked the usual undertone of mocking or derision, it made his eyes burn.

“Shen-shidi,” He wanted to complain, to beg his shidi, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth in front of Shen Jiu. You will listen. He hissed, something heavy coming to rest on the center of Yue Qingyuan’s back. He longed to press back into the feel of his shidi’s forehead, but the man in his arms kept him still.

I may hate this, Shen Jiu began, However, I prefer this little idiot in control of our body to the machine keeping him hostage. Shen Jiu’s words were nearly lost to the renewed shaking of the walls around them. Yue Qingyuan kept his eyes forward, but he ached to turn around.

“Shen-shidi,” He began again, cut off by a sound of frustration from the man behind him. Shut up. If you don’t have to explain yourself, neither do I. The weight of his forehead vanished from Yue Qingyuan’s back and suddenly he was hanging on by a thread, only the weight of the hand twisted into the back of his robes holding him together. “I-” He couldn’t speak, nothing made it out of his tightened throat.

He tightened his grip on the man in his arms, at some point he had fallen silent, quietly resting for just a moment. Ask him his name. Was the last thing Yue Qingyuan heard before everything faded out.

It was just him, floating and lost in the darkness for the barest moments before he was falling into consciousness again. He snapped awake, sitting up quickly. It took only a moment to register where he was before he got up and left the private room on Qian Cao. He felt renewed and worn down.

He couldn’t bring himself to be furious with the imposter in Shen Jiu’s body, not even the disgust and revulsion were there anymore. He was furious instead, with the being. The System. His shidi was in there, and he wanted Yue Qingyuan to bring him back. To give him back control over the body he was in.

Yue Qingyuan could do it, he would do it. He would drag the being out of his shidi’s body and destroy it if he had to. And once the being was gone, he could begin to look for a way to separate souls. Two souls shouldn’t have to share a body, and Yue Qingyuan was willing to dig out Tianlang-jun if he must to build another body for the imposter.

#svsss #fanfic #system possession #I'll post this one and the other one on ao3 eventually #yue qingyuan #shen jiu #shen yuan #ignore my grammar slowly disintegrating over the course of this fic

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sleep-escapes-me · 8 months ago

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didn't know they were dating

Imogen x Laudna

word count: 2569

a modern au told through the eyes of convenience store employee, Cynthia, and the observations she makes while working

read the full version on ao3

“Are you able to work independently in a fast-paced environment?”

“Yes, sir. At my previous job, my boss was impressed with how—,”

“You’re hired.”

The evening shift is Cynthia’s new home. She’s grateful for the opportunity at something different but more so for the money. Having hobbies is expensive and horses are expensive. So when your hobby is horses…well.

And school of course. Money for school.

“Welcome to Faramore’s!”

The cheery disposition is easy enough to muster. And once her manager stops randomly showing up during her shifts after the first week, Cynthia realizes the pep isn’t necessary. At least not with the crowd of customers she’s slowly getting used to.

It's a nice job for the pay. The shop she works at is located in a sleepy neighborhood on the city's outskirts so it rarely gets busy. Every night so far has been peaceful. Giving Cynthia plenty of time to finish any homework and people-watch.

She comes to recognize the regulars fairly quickly and learns all their names only because she’s nosy and the receipt is right there.

There's the blue-haired guy with the nice smile, Dorian, who more often than not has a guitar strapped to his back. He usually shows up with his boyfriend, seemingly always coming from a workout at the gym, Orym. His eyes are incredibly discerning if not a little unsettling. He stares at her like he knows all her secrets. But they’re always very polite and ask how she’s holding up in the late hour. Cynthia likes them.

Protein bar Lip balm Ready-to-bake pie crust $15.99

There's the incredibly tall gorgeous woman, Fearne, who always smells like a garden of wildflowers when she walks in. Cynthia’s been scared to ask what perfume she wears after an incident where she caught the woman attempting to steal. Maybe Cynthia is just naive but she thought being caught once would deter further attempts…but that strangely wasn’t the case. She's had to let it go altogether because she just gets so flustered. One playful wink from the woman has Cynthia forgetting all about the incident to the point that she makes an effort to make sure her manager never finds out about the missing stock.

Novelty monkey lighter Cinnamon gum 3 tubes of lipstick Pack of ribbons Costume jewelry Various postcards $0

Then there’s the punk-looking one with the spikey purple hair, Ashton, who always shows up exactly at 1 AM every other night. Cynthia was weary of him at first but then he gave her some really great unsolicited advice on how to not get swindled when negotiating with flaky people. After that night he started tipping her a single dollar and imparting arbitrary wisdom. Cynthia hasn’t yet figured out if it’s some kind of prank…

Two cases of beer Travel sewing kit Toothbrush $20.06

Probably the loudest customers are the two old men who have the strangest conversations every time they enter the store. Cynthia desperately wishes to get in on whatever strange schemes the hairier one, Chetney, seems to always be involved in. Half of them can’t be true but his imagination excites her regardless. The other one rides in on a bright yellow scooter half the time and always wishes Cynthia a smiley day without fail no matter the time of day. He never brings any money or pays for anything so Cynthia doesn’t know his name aside from the obvious nickname, Letters, that she hears thrown around by Chetney. The lack of money always starts an argument between the two old men that she has to awkwardly stand and listen to. She learns new curse words all the time from them.

Wood finisher Scented body oil $18.12 Chamomile tea Cigarettes $12.87

And her favorite; the girlfriends. Or at least that’s what Cynthia assumes they are. It’s hard to tell.

The spooky-looking one, Laudna, tries to make small talk while at the register. Cynthia isn’t shy by any means but it’s sometimes hard to keep up with the odd topics of conversation. Soon enough Cynthia’s learning about her pet rat who’s so old he should be dead and how he’s always jumping off high places attempting to fly. Cynthia nods politely and keeps her opinions to herself.

Mixed seeds Red yarn Super glue $15.26

The other woman Laudna is always with, Imogen, is a bit more demure—or maybe guarded is more apt. Her eyes never leave Laudna and seems content to listen to her prattle on as they shop. She rarely buys anything. It’s usually at the behest of Laudna reminding her of some arbitrary thought.

Pencils Hand lotion $11.07

Imogen comes in alone for the first time since Cynthia started working. There's a nervous titter of energy around her as she runs up and down each aisle like a bat out of hell. Cynthia debates if she should ask if she needs any help before Imogen rushes to the register.

“This all for you today?” Cynthia asks habitually.

Imogen nods with a quiet sigh. “Hopefully.”

Box cake mix Candles Black sprinkles Oven mitts $14.47

Once she’s left, Cynthia muses over how sweet their relationship must be for Imogen to want to bake a cake for her girlfriend. She herself is an abysmal baker so it makes her yearn for a relationship in the future that’s just as thoughtful. She imagines Laudna walking through their front door, the house smelling of freshly baked goods. Imogen walks out of a side room with the cake decorated, candles lit, and a big smile on her face…

She speaks too soon when Imogen comes back in a little over an hour in a visibly sour mood, black crumbs stuck to her shirt.

Box cake mix Frosting $3.69

Cynthia can’t help herself as Imogen sullenly reaches for her purchase. The words tumble out of her mouth. “Havin’ trouble?”

Imogen startles at the sudden question and Cynthia holds back a grimace. She awkwardly gestures to the items she just bagged.

“Using milk instead of water makes a better box cake. More fat is supposed to improve it or something. At least that’s what my mama always says.”

Imogen frowns and checks over her shoulder toward the fridge section. She looks back at Cynthia for a solid two-count and nods.

Milk Energy drink $4.25

Imogen smiles warmly at her, taking her groceries. “Thanks.”

Cynthia beams. “Of course. Hope it turns out well.”

Imogen doesn’t show up for the rest of the night.

Laudna shows up alone one day in a tizzy and Cynthia instantly recognizes something is wrong. It tests her resilience as an impartial convenience store employee to not get involved in customers' business…but Laudna’s frazzled appearance and her very loud speaking over the phone at least paints Cynthia a vague picture.

“Okay, darling, I’ve just arrived. I’m walking to the medicine aisle. Ooh, those snacks Pâté likes are on sale—right, sorry. I am in the medicine aisle. Which one is it?” She pauses. “There’s a yellow label and a blue label.” Another pause. “Are you sure? The yellow label says extra strength.” Pause. “Well, I don’t care if it’s extra money! This is your health! I’m not yelling! Oh, nope. I am. Sorry, sorry. Hold on. I’m grabbing the yellow label.”

Cynthia watches Laudna do that in two more aisles.

“Okay, darling, I’m heading to the register. I’m hanging up. I have to pay.” She frowns. “I'm telling you so you don’t worry.” She looks at the phone then at Cynthia. “She hung up.”

Cynthia bites the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. “Find everything okay?”

“Oh, I hope so.” Laudna’s shoulders droop. “I get so flustered in a crisis that sometimes I forget my own name. Isn’t that just silly? I’m lucky Imogen is always so collected.” She chuckles lightly while nervously pulling at the ends of her hair.

“It’s not silly when you’re worried about someone.”

“You’re so sweet.” Laudna's eyes crinkle with a smile. “You know, I see you working whenever I come in. No matter the time. Do you always work this shift?”

“For the time being, yes.”

“You’re so young,” she muses.

Cynthia hands over the bag to Laudna. “Well, I hope everything is all right with your girlfriend.”

Laudna’s face slowly drops as she processes Cynthia’s words. “Excuse me?”

She scrambles. “Nothing. Nevermind. Here’s your change. Have a good evening.”

Laudna stares at her for a long moment before reaching for her money. Then trails out of the store in a mumbling daze.

Scar cream Pain meds Bandage wrap $25.73

Cynthia resists the urge to run in the back room. Was she wrong? Were they even dating? Were they already married? She’s never seen a ring on Imogen. Or has she? Laudna…definitely had one, right? The shine of a sparkling red ruby ring enters her mind. Fiancé?

Imogen enters the store alone the next night but seems perfectly normal when interacting with Cynthia. She even tells her to have a good night as she leaves.

A bag of chips Two energy drinks $6.86

It isn't until Laudna is back again at the end of the week when the fruits of her fuck up unravel. She doesn't enter with Imogen. Instead with someone Cynthia is shocked to see such a sweet woman like Laudna in cahoots with. The thief!

Cynthia watches the pair peruse the aisles aimlessly until

“Fearne!” The yell comes from the back of the shop. Laudna’s arms can be seen flailing over the tops of the shelves. Cynthia strains to listen.

“It’s all right,” Fearne says. “She doesn’t mind.”

Laudna stutters. “You still shouldn’t steal from such a sweet girl. That could be grounds for termination.”

Fearne hums. “She hasn’t been fired yet.”

Finally, the two of them make their way to the front. Fearne pivots toward the door with a familiar flirty wink before Laudna grabs her arm.

“Where are you going?” she admonishes. “We still have to pay.”

“Oh. Oops,” Fearne giggles. “Silly me. It just slipped my mind.”

Cynthia is mostly sure Fearne didn’t forget.

Laudna's eyes don’t quite look at Cynthia as they approach. Fearne seemingly takes notice and saunters up to the register.

“You must see Laudna here a lot, right?”

Cynthia feels her mouth go dry. She realizes she’s never heard Fearne’s voice this close because the other woman never comes to the register. It somehow even further adores her to the enigmatic woman. Cynthia slowly nods. “Sometimes.”

She leans across the counter. Her eyes twinkle with a mischievous sparkle. “So…are you the one who called Imogen her girlfriend?”

“Fearne! Okay!” She pushes her friend aside and drops a bill down on the counter in a fluster. “That's enough of that. I think we’re done here. Yes. Thank you so much, young lady! You have a lovely evening!”

Cynthia forgets to ring them up.

At this point, it’s been several weeks since seeing Imogen and Laudna enter the store together. Cynthia is so on edge thinking about the two women's situation that it’s starting to affect her sleep schedule.

The curiosity eats away at her until the next time Imogen walks in. The gentle ding from the door’s bell erupts like a blaring alarm for Cynthia. Her focus zeros in on the unsuspecting woman and tracks her around the store like a hawk. The next time she passes by the front, the word vomit hurls from Cynthia’s lips when it’s simply too much to hold back.

“Did you break up?” She blurts out instead of her usual script.

Imogen’s eyebrows furrow. “Huh?”

“Your girlfriend—uhh, or maybe fiancé?” She says it like a question and Imogen stares at her like she’s grown two heads. “Laud—the one woman you’re always here with. The spooky one?” Silence. She should really shut up. “Aren’t you together?”

The other woman goes deathly still. “No…”

Oh.

Cynthia feels the embarrassing red-hot heat flooding her cheeks. “Sorry. I thought you were. It was wrong of me to assume.”

A muscle in Imogen’s cheek tightens. Her mouth opens and closes several times before she asks, “Why would you think we were together?” Her voice is stony. “Did she say somethin’?”

“What?” She doesn’t sound accusatory or angry so Cynthia is confident she hasn’t completely insulted this woman. The word vomit continues. “No. It’s not that. I mean I did mention to her that you were her girlfriend and she never really denied it. I thought—I honestly didn’t think you were dating at first. But after a while it was hard to ignore when the two of you seemed so…” She trails off when noticing how pale Imogen has gotten.

“So?”

“In love?” Cynthia finishes lamely. Her cheeks burn with mortification.

She makes a noise somewhere between an acknowledgment and a whimper.

It’s all Cynthia gets before she turns and makes a beeline toward the back. She stands in front of the liquor aisle for an exorbitant amount of time. Cynthia has half a mind to ask if she’s all right but cowardice of saying the wrong thing again stops her. Finally, she makes a selection and Cynthia has to struggle to not cringe as she rings her up. No pleasantries are exchanged.

Box wine $8.99

She comes in the next day.

Cynthia wants to crawl into a hole.

Box wine Tissues Pain meds $14.68

And the next.

Cynthia considers quitting just to stave off the unparalleled embarrassment and shame coursing through her.

Two bottles of wine Decongestant Pint of ice cream Effervescent tablets $36.87

She never sees her again.

Mainly because Cynthia quits her job at Faramore's soon after. She’s accepted into an apprenticeship across town and can’t justify the commute anymore.

She doesn’t tell her regulars because that seems like a silly thing to do. It’s not like she talks to any of them or knows them beyond the stories she makes up in her head by their brief interactions. It’s strange when she realizes she will miss them. There’s a melancholic kind of insight she garners—missing someone you don’t really know.

Months later Cynthia finds herself in the neighborhood after an event takes her back across town. The curiosity hits her a bit too hard and soon enough she finds herself back at her old store. It’s like walking into a time capsule. She doesn’t feel any claim to the shop as it’s one of many and she’s gone to others in the franchise but it still feels strangely familiar as the bell dings when she enters.

The guy at the register is more apathetic than she cares to comment on. He rings up her items without so much as a greeting.

Gummy bears Bottle of water $4.33

On her way out, the door whooshes open and the bell dings softly. As if in slow motion, in walks Laudna, a big smile on her face, arm around a giggling Imogen’s shoulders, whose own arm is securely wrapped around Laudna’s waist. Laudna leans her head down to kiss the top of Imogen’s head. Then Imogen smoothly turns her face upward and they share a chaste kiss without breaking their stride. They don’t notice Cynthia walk past them.

Maybe Cynthia sheds a single tear later that night when she thinks about them or maybe it's just this very emotional movie she’s watching about a horse that defies all the odds in the end.

#imodna fic #imodna #imogen temult #laudna #my writing #prompt fic #eventually i'll fix this up/add more and publish on ao3 #i'm just glad i finally posted something after 2 months

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pfhwrittes · 10 months ago

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housemate!kyle x gender neutral reader let's goooooo.

rating: PG-13 (for now) pairing: eventual kyle "gaz" garrick x gender neutral reader word count: 1.5k TW: bit of swearing, fluff, mentions of original characters AN: i fully plan on writing more of this, but i wanted to get the first part out before i start the next part. as always, barely edited so funky grammar and typos are still likely. this is completely self indulgent. please send love to @391780 for cheerleading me with this one!

–

your housemate sucks since meeting her new boyfriend.

your normally sociable, polite and reasonable housemate has turned into some kind of lust-crazed succubus since meeting dale, spending hours upon hours of her time shut in her bedroom with him. and if she doesn’t shut the fuck up in the next five minutes you’re going to kick her door in. or castrate him. or possibly burst into sleep deprived tears.

“oh! oh god! fuck! dale, baby, oh my god!”

jesus fucking christ. it’s 4.30am and ruby is wailing like a cat in heat at the top of her fucking voice. she’s so loud you could swear she and her soon to be castrated boyfriend were fucking in your bedroom instead of the room next to yours. briefly you debate yelling at the top of your lungs but you don’t want to disturb the neighbours any further, so with a muttered curse you snatch your pillow and duvet off your bed and stomp downstairs to the living room so you can sleep on the sofa.

you get settled onto the sofa and glare at the ceiling in the living room, the sound of rhythmic thumping and moaning still audible even with the increased distance between you and the nymphomaniac formerly known as ruby. you mutter and grumble to yourself as you shut your eyes trying to get at least a little bit of sleep before needing to get up for your job interview in the morning.

–

at midday you kick the front door shut behind you and shrug your coat off your shoulders as you step further into the hallway.

“hey i’m home!” you call up the stairs, “my job interview was an utter shit show so i’m thinking we get a chinese and a bottle of wine to commiserate, yeah?” you pause waiting to hear ruby’s usual reply reminding you not to order from the golden palace but silence greets you instead.

“huh. weird.” you mutter to yourself as you pass through the living room, dropping your bag and coat on the sofa as you beeline towards the kitchen. ruby’s probably making something for lunch while listening to one of her creepy true crime podcasts.

“hey ruby - oh.” you cut yourself off as you walk into the kitchen, no sign of ruby except for the used butter knife leaving a greasy smear on the counter and a pink post-it note stuck on the front of the fridge. you step forward to pluck the note off the fridge and squint at ruby’s loopy handwriting.

gone 2 stay w/ dale 4 a few days! look after widget for me - r xxxx

you huff a breath out of your nose and crumple the note into a ball so you can pop it in the kitchen bin with the crumbs you sweep off the side into your palm. ugh. it’s such a little thing but you feel frustrated tears well up in your eyes in response to having to clean up after ruby once again on minimal sleep.

a tiny high pitched mrr! interrupts your internal grumbling and you turn around to face the little tabby that is waiting patiently by an empty food bowl.

“hiya widge, have you been a good girl while i’ve been out?” you ask softly as you crouch so widget can bonk her head onto your outstretched hand. typically widget doesn’t answer but she chirps again before padding back to her bowl, politely requesting that you get with the programme and make with the biscuits before cleaning up the rest of the kitchen.

you sigh and push yourself up from the floor, just another half finished job left for you. great.

–

a week later, with no sign of ruby and your texts unanswered, your laptop chimes on the coffee table with a new email. you hope briefly that it’s one of the companies you’ve applied to responding to your application with an offer for a job interview, but your heart sinks as you realise it's an email from your landlord, john.

you skim over the email and you feel your eyes sting as select phrases leap out at you. “i’m sorry to inform you that ruby has decided to end the tenancy agreement at 141 hereford way early” ... “you can choose to remain in the property as a sole tenant after an additional credit check to ensure your affordability” … “alternatively, please let me know when ruby has collected her belongings so i can advertise the room to other prospective tenants”.

fuck. that utter bitch. she’s left you unemployed and now potentially living with a total stranger. fuck.

your hands shake slightly as you reach for your laptop so you can start composing your reply to john.

“hi john, thanks for letting me know. i haven’t heard from ruby in a week now, so i’m unsure when she’ll be able to collect her belongings but i think it’s probably for the best if you look at advertising her room as available to rent. i’ll start bagging up her belongings today. kind regards….”

it’s official. your soon to be ex-housemate really fucking sucks.

–

several days pass with a flurry of emails to john and even more unanswered texts to ruby, when a solid jaunty knock startles you out of the doze you’d dropped into on the sofa. you hiss as widget launches herself off your stomach using her claws for purchase so she can bolt up the stairs away from the noise. you swear under your breath as you kick one of the six black bin bags that line the hallway filled with ruby’s crap as you edge your way to the front door. the silhouette you can see through the frosted glass in the door knocks again just as you reach for the handle and pull the door open.

“yeah yeah i’m here -” you cut yourself off with an embarrassed sound as you get a good look at the man standing at the threshold. oh no, he’s fit as fuck is your first thought and you’re not wrong.

the first thing you notice, as you flick your eyes over him quickly, is that he’s in incredible shape. the stranger has broad shoulders and a muscular chest that tapers off into a narrow waist. the second thing you notice when you raise your gaze back up to his face is that he has a jaw dropping smile when he flashes you a friendly grin.

“hey, i’m kyle. your new housemate.” he says confidently, “john should’ve mentioned me.”

you shake yourself out of the slight daze you’ve found yourself in - seriously no man should have skin that perfect - and you offer your own tentative smile back.

“uh, yeah. sure. sorry i was -” you glance back into the hallway and cringe at the sight of the black bin bags “- um. in the middle of something.” you finish weakly, hoping you don’t look too obviously like you’ve been napping in the middle of the day.

your housemate - kyle - rumbles out a slightly bashful chuckle.

“no, no it’s fine. i would’ve been here earlier but i had to give a witness statement for the accident on the high street.” kyle reaches up and tugs at the brim of the scuffed blue baseball cap on his head awkwardly.

“oh shit, really? what happened?” you query him eagerly, your love of gossip overriding your mild embarrassment in a flash. kyle’s eyes crinkle happily at your tone and he leans in conspiratorially, letting his hand drop away from his face.

“some guy walked into an open manhole cover.” he says with a completely straight face.

you burst out a startled laugh. “no fucking way!”

kyle nods, his lips twitching in a poorly concealed grin. “yeah, stuck like winnie the pooh, i swear to god.”

you have to hold onto the edge of the open door to stop yourself from collapsing into fits of laughter. “how -” another gleeful cackle escapes you before you can compose yourself, “how the fuck did he manage to do that?”

kyle shrugs. “he just walked straight through the barrier, surprised the lanky fucker missed it really.”

you collapse into laughter again, feeling your cheeks ache from the width of your grin. holy shit, that’s the best thing you’ve heard all day. eventually your slightly hysterical laughter peeters out and you wipe at your eyes as you look at kyle who is grinning back at you.

“so, fancy letting me in then?” he nudges at the frankly massive khaki rucksack at his feet after a moment of silence as if to remind you that he isn’t just here to charm you with silly stories and his offensively handsome good looks. your embarrassment flares once again as you realise you’ve just been looking at him instead of asking him to come inside like a normal person.

“sorry, yeah of course.” you step back from the door and turn around so he can’t see the way your cheeks are now flushed from embarrassment instead of laughter. “sorry about the mess.” you say apologetically over your shoulder as kyle follows you into the hallway.

“oh i dunno, it doesn’t look too bad to me.”

you hear kyle kick the door shut behind him and you laugh again to cover up the way your stomach flutters at his tone. if you didn’t know better you’d say he was flirting with you, but you discount that as wishful thinking on your part as you lead him towards the stairs.

it is wishful thinking, right?

#housemate!gaz #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #gender neutral reader #is that p starting a new wip series based on a whim? why yes it is!#smut is coming (no pun intended) but i wanted to post the set up straight away #eventually i'll cross post this over to ao3 #kg

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wicked-bluebird · 1 year ago

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take a load off pt. 1

"Beloved, you must get tired standing around the counter all day. Why don't you rest your feet, sit down for a bit?" Sydney suggests, his voice the epitome of polite and concerned.

It doesn't sound like a bad idea. You look around for a chair to pull over, then appraise the counter considering just jumping up and sitting on it. The latter might open you up to punishment should Leighton come in and you didn't want to give the pervert any ammunition.

You're broken from your pondering by a soft throat clearing.

Your eyes meet Sydney's, you can see his gentle smile and the genuine care in his eyes, but you know better than to take it at surface value. You can see the flicker there underneath, a flash of mischief just barely peeking through.

"We can share my seat." He gestures casually to his chair, as if the suggestion is casual, courteous.

You raise an eyebrow at him, wondering what angle he's taking here. He can be a confusing mix of forward and reserved. He could mean literally sharing his seat, side by side - the embodiment of pure and faithful. Judging by the glint in his eye though you think he means his lap.

He languidly move a slender hand to his thigh and lightly pats. Confirmed, you're dealing with 'Sydney the Fallen' here and now.

Your gaze lingers on his gracefully long hand, the way even his veins seem sophisticated, the relaxed manner in which his fingers rest on his upper thigh, only inches away from his... "Your eyes are burning, love" he muses.

You quickly look back up to his face. An almost teasing smile on his lips, a question lingering in his look.

#dol sydney #degrees of lewdity #dol pc #sydney the faithful #sydney the fallen #dol #degrees of lewdity x reader #dol x reader #sydney x reader #writing #mine #i'll post to ao3 but i needed to request a new invite bc i'm not gonna post on main #my first foray into (eventual) smut??

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overlyobsessed223 · 26 days ago

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second chances

another halbarry ficlet. spoilers for kevin smith's GA bc this story takes place directly after his run. can maybe be read as platonic. featuring spectre hal and afterlife barry, enjoy :)

---

Heaven has never been a particularly loud place. The sprawling hills that seem to stretch on endlessly provide each resident more than enough space to comfortably exist, and even then, the blissful peace that comes with complete and utter contentment lends to a lack of a need to converse or even speak in and of itself. Save for the whoops and laughter of the young boy wonder who inconspicuously showed up at the pearly gates only a few years after him, Barry has always known the afterlife to be nothing less than tranquil.

And yet, as he runs his thumb along the shaft of one of the arrows that have, as of recently, been left abandoned in the luscious green grass, he can’t help but think Heaven seems the quietest it’s ever been.

Too quiet, even, perhaps.

Seeing someone enter through the gates of this place only to return back to the land of the living has been far from unheard of. Barry remembers his bittersweet reunion with Clark some time ago, only for Clark’s soul to be pulled back to his body a short time after. But he has to admit, Oliver’s revival, in particular, has him slightly… surprised, due to the way Ollie had adamantly and consistently refused the second chance Hal so desperately wanted to give him.

Speaking of Hal, Barry senses his presence before he sees him. Well, mostly he senses the Spectre’s wild, angry, vengeful spirit, but he can perceive Hal, too, the loving, sentimental, willful man he’s always been veiled just beneath the powerful force of the wraith he’s bound to. There’s also sadness and guilt—so, so much guilt that it seems to physically weigh on his shoulders and in his eyes, and each time Barry sees him he’s harshly reminded that Hal has not yet earned his place in paradise.

“So, he’s really gone fully back?” Barry asks, continuing to study the arrow in his hand.

“Yes,” Hal’s voice answers from somewhere behind him. “For now, at least.”

Barry hums and nods. He swallows hard, feeling a prick of bittersweet grief in his chest. Zooming around the valley and scooping up all of the arrows scattered in the grass, he places them back into the quiver and leans it up against the target next to the bow.

“I kinda thought you’d seem… I dunno. Happier?” Hal comments after a moment. “Now that he’s gone. You two always did butt heads.”

“Yeah, we did,” Barry lets out an amused breath of laughter. A lifetime of heated arguments and cutting words flashes through his mind, and he remembers them fondly.

Oliver’s quick wit and snappy remarks did not die with him, but Barry was met with a very different Oliver Queen standing at the gates of the afterlife, one who he at first almost didn’t recognize. Ollie carried a certain kind of weariness, hollowed to the core by a life of mistakes and insecurities and internal struggles. His eyes had welled up with tears, actual tears when he saw Barry. He’d yanked him into a long, tight hug, and Barry for not the first time had wondered what exactly became of the world after the crisis and why it seemed to leave all of his friends shells of who they once were.

“It was nice having him around,” Barry says. He runs his hand down the edge of the red and white target, reminiscing as he’s so prone to do nowadays. “He mellowed out in his old age. I liked his company.”

He pauses, glancing at the empty valley he and Oliver used to spend hours playing in together.

“But,” he adds, “I’m glad he’s embraced the second chance he’s been given on Earth. If not for him, then at least for the people who loved him.”

“I wanted to bring you back, too.”

Barry stops. He turns around to look at Hal for the first time since he showed up and can just barely catch a glimpse of a too-pale face and dark eyes under a large, shadowy hood.

“I tried,” Hal’s eyes lower fractionally, like he can’t bear to meet Barry’s gaze. “But you—it’s been so long since your—there just wasn’t anything left of you to put back together.”

As he speaks, his words are heavy with shame. Whether that’s due to his failure to bring Barry back to life or that he tried to do it at all, Barry isn't sure.

“Well, that’s okay,” Barry says, and he offers Hal a genuine smile to show him that he means it, really and truly. “My time in the sun is long over, Hal. From what I’ve heard, Wally’s filled my boots just fine as the Flash.”

“It wasn’t the Flash I was trying to bring back,” Hal’s eyes lift to look at him head-on. The light of Heaven’s eternal day hits his face more, illuminating his tightened jaw. “It was Barry Allen.”

“Hal…” Barry sighs. He reaches to pull back his cowl and runs a hand through his hair.

“There’re people who love you, too,” Hal says, his voice slightly wavering. “People who would do… anything. Anything to have you back with them.”

Hal pushes back the hood on his head, letting it pool around his neck and shoulders, and Barry can see his entire face, from the deep frown tugging at his eyebrows and lips to the despair glimmering in his eyes. The years of compounded grief that, even in death, has left him looking aged and worn. Barry’s heart begins to ache.

“I know,” Barry says softly.

Because even before he died, Barry never doubted that Hal loved him. There was a special, unspoken connection between them, and in his final moments, one of Barry’s biggest regrets was leaving it unspoken. Now, though, Barry’s realized that maybe it wasn’t as unspoken as he’d thought.

Their individual paths of life split off from one another long ago, with Barry’s cut short and Hal’s a dark, winding road of pain and suffering. But in death, here they are, together. Although it isn’t like it used to be, and it’s far from a second chance for both of them in the way they'd like it to be, it’s still something to cherish and make the most of.

“Hey,” Barry moves to stand at Hal’s side, bumping their shoulders, “you don’t need to go back to work right away, do you?”

“No,” Hal tilts his head, that unruly chunk of hair becoming dislodged. Barry doesn’t bother to hold himself back from reaching to push it back into place. “Why?”

“Because we should race,” Barry gestures to the wide, open valley. “Like old times.”

Hal blinks. Then, he breaks out into a grin that’s rare nowadays. In a flash of green light, Hal is wearing his Green Lantern uniform, ring pulsating on his fist as he levitates from the ground.

“Alright, Barry,” Hal says, and his voice has already brightened significantly. “Let’s race.”

Barry pulls his cowl back onto his face, dips into a running position, and waits for Hal’s starting gun construct to go off.

Things aren’t the same. They’re on borrowed time before Hal has to go back to his work as the Spectre. Barry will have to remain here, and it could be minutes or eternities before they find themselves together again.

So all they can do now is make every last second count.

#halbarry #barry allen #hal jordan #spectre hal #green arrow 2001 #ficlet #my writing #i'll probably end up posting this on ao3 eventually but for now i'll keep it here #this also wasn't heavily edited so my sincerest apologies for mistakes

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amee-racle-ofmyown · 16 days ago

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I've been unable to work on my longer WIPs for some reason but take this. for lack of a better title:

idiots locked in the world's most romantically charged staring contest

Heist Mark x Y/N (reader) | 628 words

You wait just around the corner, quiet and out of sight, and lightly smack Mark's arm with the back of your hand when he tries to peer around you, lest someone see and you have both your covers blown.

Your partner rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and you level him with a stare.

You understand the anticipation, but patience is crucial for jobs like this. You wait for the signal. One wrong move could cost you a lot more than just your loot.

The little nook of the building you're waiting in is, rather conveniently for means of slinking around unnoticed, out of the way, and quite narrow. Even with Mark leaning back against the opposite wall, you are mere inches apart.

He checks his watch. 'Should be any minute now,' he utters in a hushed voice.

You nod. Several seconds pass. Distant chatter echoes down the halls, muffled into a steady background ambience of rich party attendees blissfully unaware of the thieves in their midst.

You look at your partner, simply because you have nothing else to do. He's craning his neck again in a futile attempt to peek around the corner more subtly.

His suit for the night is crisp, and gives his silhouette a sharper outline than the more typical cosy sweaters and soft flannel shirts. His hair looks especially dark cast in shadow, but there's enough light from outside the enclosed space that you see it reflected in his eyes. Softly glowing white and orange and magenta specs, floating on deep brown. Pretty.

It's as he turns his head back to face you, that he notices you staring, and meets your gaze without missing a beat.

Mark smiles, faintly roguish, but gentle and just for you.

He holds your stare, and something to the way he does so makes you wonder if he sees the same lights sparkling in your own eyes, and if he finds the sight as oddly captivating as you do.

A minute passes.

Mark loosens his tie.

It's a simple, small thing, but it stirs something inside of you, and you don't know why, but your breath hitches a little and your eyes widen slightly and he definitely notices. But he doesn't say anything and neither do you. All he does is keep looking intensely into your eyes until he doesn't because his gaze is flickering elsewhere — trailing across your features, settling on your mouth for longer than can be dismissed and when you bite your lip subconsciously it's as if he's mesmerised. You can hardly recall where you are or what you're doing here, none of it matters as much as his head tilting ever so slightly and then—

A voice through your earpiece jolts you out of your stupor. You suddenly take stock of the warmth from Mark's breath on your face. Your noses almost bumping. When did he get so close?

You press a button on your earpiece to answer the call, and by the look on your partner's face, he hears it too. It's Wubba and Bubba, giving the signal as agreed, and the moment is gone and your friend clears his throat and straightens up, as a confusing mixture of disappointment and frustration and lingering excitement flutter and twist in your gut.

When he moves out of your immediate space, the inches feel like miles.

You push the feelings down. You have work to do.

Mark mumbles something over the voice channel before turning back to you once again.

'You ready, buddy?'

The corner of your mouth quirks up, matching his own eager grin.

'You know I am.'

His grin widens.

'Good,' he says, adjusting his sleeve and finally getting a better look around the corner, now that the coast is decidedly clear. 'Alright, partner. Showtime.'

#omg. omg am I back? I don't know. I can't promise anything. I'm just excited. I missed writing them properly and finishing something. omg #I literally just forced myself to sit down and eventually come up with an idea and then write it and immediately post it #before I can overthink it #I only intended to write smth really super short just for the sake of writing them besides rough blurbs and thoughts because I MISS IT AAAA #but I ended up with this. which isn't long but is kind of monumental to me??? with how badly I've been struggling with writer's block latel #lowkey I'm proud of myself rn #anyway I love them they're so silly and should kiss I think #WOOHOO YIPPEE #watch me post naught a single fic for months after this (pls be wrong)#amee writes #heist mark x y/n #heist mark x reader #x reader #ahwm #a heist with markiplier #markiplier egos #markiplier cu #heist mark #heist!mark #heist!mark x reader #heist!mark x y/n #ahwm y/n #ahwm mark #mark iplier #I'll put this on ao3... at some point... eventually...#partners in crime

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thetarttfuldickhead · 1 year ago

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Fic: Roy & Jamie & and that time when Jamie was NOT in a car crash

With ten minutes left until training officially began and still no sign of Jamie, there were a few raised eyebrows and murmurs and Isaac telling Will to put the player down for a 100 quid fine, but no one thought to be worried. People ran late, sometimes. Not usually Jamie, no, but Colin figured there was a first time for everything. Besides, he was busy listening to Bumbercatch explain the intricacies of post-Brexit labour shortages and the way it served to reproduce notions of capitalist realism, none of which Colin understood, but Bumbercatch was at his fittest when he was passionate and mysterious so Colin hung on to his every word all the same.

When Roy stepped into the dressing room a little while later and noticed the distinct lack of number 9 and rang Jamie to demand where the hell he was only to receive no answer, a slight sense of unease settled over the room, though Colin suspected that had more to to with the sinister look on Coach’s face rather than any real fear that Jamie might be in danger (at least not until he showed up and had to deal with Coach anyway).

And then they heard about the car crash.

---

It was Sam who – always eager to play peacemaker, bless him – checked his phone to see if Jamie had left any messages in the group chat to explain his absence, and Sam who went very quiet and stared at his screen in silence for so long that everyone else fell silent too and turned to stare at him. Never a good sign, that sort of silence in the dressing room.

“Yo, bruv, he write something?” Isaac asked when it became apparent that Sam was not going to volunteer whatever information he had found.

“No, nothing,” Sam said. “But… “

“But fucking what?” Roy demanded, words sharp and jagged like broken glass.

“There’s been a car crash,” Sam’s voice was quiet and slow and reluctant. “A big one, not far from Jamie’s house. At least two people are dead, and several injured. It doesn’t say anything about Jamie,” he quickly added into the collective intake of horrified breath. “I’m sure he’s perfectly fine.”

“Yeah,” Thierry agreed quickly. “He probably just got delayed because it caused a traffic jam or something.”

Eager nods around room, and Colin found himself nodding along because of course that was the most reasonable explanation, of course Jamie hadn’t— he wasn’t—

“But then why didn’t he pick up his phone?” Bumbercatch asked. “Or call to say he’d be late?”

A relevant question, and as with most of Moe’s questions, without a ready answer.

“We would have heard, wouldn’t we?” Nate suggested uneasily. “I mean, they would have called, if— “

He didn’t finish the sentence. No one else spoke.

Trying to distract himself from the quickly growing pit in his stomach, Colin turned his gaze on Roy, who had gone so still that he didn’t even seem to be breathing. His face was a blank mask, utterly devoid of any emotion, but his fists were clenched so tight that Colin’s own hands twinged in sympathy.

“I’ll go talk to Higgins,” Beard said abruptly, breaking the fraught silence.

“Yeah, no, that’s a great idea,” Nate quickly chimed in. Like Colin, he’d been eyeing Roy nervously. “He’ll know what—“

The door slammed open. Jamie rushed inside. “Sorry, sorry I’m late,” he called as he dumped his bag on the bench by his cubby and started pulling his vest off, “been this massive car accident, was stuck for ages and then the road was closed off so I had to go round and— Eh?“

Cockburn, by virtue of being closest, had pulled Jamie into a tight hug, and the rest of the players immediately closed in to follow suit, Colin among them. In his relief he wasn’t sure whether to kiss Jamie or smack him on the head for worrying them, and in the end he settled for briefly squeezing his neck. Jamie grinned at him, at all of them, looking a little bemused but very much delighted by the attention.

“Fucking hell, lads,” he laughed. “Thought I’d be getting a fine, not a fucking group hug. Realized how dull training would be without me, huh?”

“You are getting a fine,” Isaac told him, even as he put his arm around Jamie’s shoulder and shook him gently. “But we’re fucking happy you’re here, yeah?”

“We thought you had died in the car crash,” Jan explained.

“Sí, amigo, we were so worried for you!”

“Oh! Yeah, no, I’m fine, I’m fine. Not fucking Colin, am I? I don’t get into any car crashes.” He caught Colin’s eye and winked, sticking his tongue out like the utter tosser he was and Colin rolled his eyes and was so, so stupidly happy the idiot was there to be annoying.

Eventually, after everyone had gotten to hug Jamie or pat him on the back or ruffle his hair (to his loud but clearly half-hearted protests), the team drifted back to their own cubbies, happily chatting amongst themselves—

— leaving Roy standing on the middle of the floor, staring at Jamie with a look on his face that had Colin take an involuntary step backwards. Their gaffer did not look relieved. In fact, he looked absolutely murderous.

“Why the fuck,” he intoned, emphasizing each word, “did you not fucking call to say you were fucking late? And why the fuck did you not answer your fucking phone?”

The tone of voice would have had anyone with even an ounce of self-preservation running for cover if directed at them, but Jamie just blinked. “Oh, er, left it at home, didn’t I? Already had it in me black bag, right, only I realized the tan one went better with this outfit so I grabbed that instead, but I forgot about the phone ‘cause I was in a bit of a rush, yeah?” He shrugged a little sheepishly. “It was stupid. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, you’re sorry about that, are you? Do you have any fucking idea—“ Taking a step closer, getting right up into Jamie’s face, Roy launched into a dressing-down of such volume and viciousness Colin was convinced it had the walls vibrating. Even by Roy Kent’s considerable standards, it was a lot and it lasted for well over a minute until Roy growled, “If you’re not out on the pitch running laps in two minutes you won’t have to worry about getting into any car crashes going home ‘cause you’ll be here all night, running ‘til you fucking drop in your own puke, got it?”

Initially, Jamie had seemed slightly taken aback by Roy’s furious remonstration, but then something that looked strangely like understanding passed over his face and he settled into a determined stoicism, neither talking back nor looking cowed. By the end of it, though, there was definitively barely suppressed anger glinting in his gray eyes, leaving Colin worried he might snap and then they’d have a full-on brawl on their hands, just like back in the bad old days when Roy and Jamie well and truly hated each others’ guts and wouldn’t that be exactly the sort of fun they all wanted on a Tuesday?

He gave a sigh of relief (and could hear Richard do the same just next to him) when Jamie just offered a curt, “yes, Coach,” and set to getting changed at an appropriately hurried speed.

“And fucking apologize to your teammates for delaying training!” Roy barked.

“We’d be out there already if you hadn’t spent the last hour shouting at me,” Jamie muttered to the boot he was tying.

“The fuck did you say?”

“Nothing, Coach. Sorry, everyone.” He looked up. “Really am,” he added, sounding quite sincere about it. “Didn’t mean to hold you up or, you know, worry you or nothing.”

---

Training was an awkward and quietly tense affair. Once Jamie had finished his laps and was allowed to join the rest of them, Roy pointedly and resolutely ignored him, refusing to so much as spare him a glance while the team muddled through the day’s exercises and scrimmage.

Jamie, for his part, seemed utterly determined not to give a shit. He went through the drills as diligently as ever, dribbled and passed and shot with his usual flair, shouting encouragements and slapping Colin’s butt after a particularly good free kick. For all intents and purposes, it was just another day at the job for Jamie Tartt – but Colin saw the looks he kept shooting Roy when he thought no one was watching, and he noticed how Jamie didn’t just play well but played brilliantly, stubbornly lining up one little footie miracle after another on the pitch. He wasn’t being a prick about it either, prompting Colin to mutter to Isaac: “Looks like Jamie’s trying to get back on Roy’s good side by going for player of the year.”

Isaac glanced over at Jamie, then shook his head in dismissal. “Nah, bruv,” he said. “He ain’t trying to appease the gaffer. Sticking it to him, innit.”

“Oh. Okay.” Colin frowned. That… didn’t make a lot of sense, really, but Isaac usually knew what he was talking about, and it wasn’t like Colin begrudged Jamie a little bit of pushback, not after the way Roy had chewed him out in front of everyone. It was just that, if this escalated and the two of them got into it properly, the way they used to back when Roy was still the captain rather than the coach… Well. It’d be a shit time for everyone. Colin could do without it. They could all do without it.

Not that that sort of consideration had ever stopped either Roy or Jamie before.

On the other side of the pitch, Jamie threw himself down in a bicycle kick that saw the ball soar right past two defender’s and Thierry’s outstretched hands.

“Whistle,” Roy snapped. “Training’s fucking over.”

---

“Oi! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Colin, with Dani, Jeff and Jamie in tow, had almost made it out of the dressing room, freshly showered and changed and very ready to put the training session behind them, when Roy’s bark brought them to abrupt heel. Dani stopped so suddenly that Jeff almost walked straight into him, and Colin himself accidentally elbowed Jamie when he startled at the sudden roar.

You’d think they’d be more than used to Roy’s yelling by now, Colin thought. Then again, he supposed it’d been a strange day and they were all a little on edge. Jumpy.

“We’re going to my place, Coach,” he quickly offered, hoping to stave off another round of shouting. “To play some FIFA.” He briefly considered inviting Roy to join them, it would only be polite, right, and could be good for morale maybe, but he was held back by the notion that the gaffer might say yes.

“Tartt isn’t,” Roy informed him curtly.

Jamie cocked his head to the side. “I’m not?” Definitively a hint of challenge in his tone, and Jesus, this was all going to go straight to hell, wasn’t it? And after they’d almost made it out of here, too.

Roy was unmoved; unyielding as stone. “No, you’re coming with me so I can keep an eye on you since you’re too much of a fucking child to be trusted on your own.”

For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other, both faces shadowed by stubborn scowls. Colin realized he was holding his breath, and glanced over at Isaac getting ready for dinner with his parents in front of the mirror to check if he, as captain, was maybe planning to step in and deescalate the situation. How he was going to do that Colin had no idea; he wasn’t the captain.

Isaac said nothing, though, just watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. Figures, Colin thought a little sourly; his friend was utter shit at keeping secrets but could pull inscrutable like nobody’s business when it suited him.

“Fine.” In the end, Jamie relented with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m taking me own car, which I have, what with me not actually being in a car crash today and all.”

Roy looked furious at that, as if Jamie’s lack of fiery death in a burning inferno was somehow a personal insult to him, but then he pressed his lips together and jerked his head in a sharp t nod. “Fine.”

He spun around and stalked away, leaving Jamie rolling his eyes and muttering Jesus fucking Christ you overdramatic grumpy fuck under his breath. Then he turned to the rest of them and shrugged. “Sorry, lads. Another time, yeah?”

Dani made a small, unhappy sound. Colin exchanged a look with Jeff, who looked about as unsure and uncomfortable as Colin felt. Over on the other side of the room, Isaac was still quiet, potentially a sign to the others to keep out of it as well, but in spite of that Colin found himself compelled to ask: “Boyo, do you want us to… talk to Coach?”

It was a mildly terrifying idea, and it very much went against the unspoken agreement that nobody interfere with the continued absurdity that was Roy and Jamie’s relationship these days. But, today had been weird in a way that seemed to have little enough to do with training, extracurricular or otherwise. A particular kind of weird, even for these two. Besides, his whole idea of an impromptu game night had been, at least in part, a bid to cheer Jamie up after all that, and it seemed a shame that he’d miss it for more of the same.

Jamie, however, waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, mate, it’s fine.”

He looked like he meant it, too. There was a frown on his face, sure, but as far as Colin could tell it spoke more of mild annoyance than actual upset or worry.

“But forgetting your phone was a simple mistake, and it is not your fault you were late. It’s not right that Coach should keep punishing you for it.” Sam, who had declined FIFA in favour of being a responsible restaurant owner (“and bad fucking flirt, it’s been almost a year mate, why haven’t you asked her out yet?”), had walked over from his locker and was eyeing Jamie with customarily earnest concern.

Jamie just shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and off their worried stares added, “He’s not going to do anything bad or anything. It’s just, I fucking scared him, right, and he’s being a twat about it ‘cause he’s an idiot who doesn’t know how to have feelings properly and he’s only been in therapy for like three months and it’ll probably take a year for anything Dr. Sharon says to go through his big stupid head, yeah? That’s all.”

Which. Okay. Colin could see how the prospect of Jamie actually dying might scare even Roy, but on the other hand… it was Roy. Roy Kent. And besides—

“I don’t know, man, he didn’t seem scared,” Jeff ventured.

“No, amigo, he seemed like he wanted to rip your head off,” Dani helpfully filled in. “And maybe use it as a football.”

“Yeah, because he’s a twat,” Jamie said. “But it’ll be fine, I promise. Probably just wants to make me dinner or something.”

Colin blinked. That… was a leap. Even by Jamie’s particular kind of logic, that was definitively a leap.

“He’s right.” Oh, so now Isaac decided to speak up. “Roy’s not mad at Jamie, he’s mad because he was frightened.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows meaningfully and pointed at their captain. “Yeah, that. So don’t worry.” Adjusting his cap he shot Colin a cheeky wink. “Whoever plays me better score a fuckton of goals tonight, yeah? See you tomorrow, lads.”

And he was out the door, fucking humming as he went. Doing that Jamie Tartt thing of untouchable and unshakeable confidence and you think you can get to me? Nothing ever gets to me and even now that Colin knew Jamie wasn’t quite as invulnerable as all that, some of the old awe and jealousy stirred, mixed with concerned incredulity.

“Is it just me,” he asked after a protracted moment, “or are those two getting even weirder?”

“It’s not just you,” Jeff muttered.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Dani promised brightly, “I will play Richmond tonight and score a fuckton of goals and I will crush you for the sake of our amigo Jamie.”

Colin sighed. “Fantastic.”

At least he’d have the comfort of knowing that getting trashed by Dani Rojas was still far, far better than whatever cruel and unusual punishment Roy had planned for Jamie.

---

Jamie leaned back against Roy’s surprisingly comfortable couch and let out a small sigh of contentment. He wondered whether he ought to be still annoyed with Roy for being a massive wanker or pleased with himself for how utterly he’d called this. He settled for alternating between the two; he was complex like that. People didn’t know it, but he had depths.

Roy hadn’t tried to make him run a marathon or do a million burpees or whatever Colin and the rest had imagined. He hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t said much at all, really, since Jamie stepped through the front door without knocking; mostly he’d glared and grunted and used those funny little head jerks to communicate that Jamie should sit down and be quiet and drink the water Roy put in front of him.

Jamie had sat down and drunk the water. He had not been quiet. He’d watched the Spurs game on the telly last night and he had opinions relevant to their upcoming match against them, which by rights should interest the gaffer and if it didn’t, too fucking bad.

Roy hadn’t told him to shut up.

Instead, he’d made them dinner (fucking called it), a nutritionist approved salmon pasta with saffron and fennel that Jamie was particularly fond of, and then sent Jamie off to the couch while he did the washing up. He hadn’t said a word about Jamie’s choice of entertainment either, when he appeared a little while later with two steaming cups of tea and found the telly turned on to an old episode of Doctor Who. The show had been a staple of Jamie’s early teens and remained a nostalgic comfort; just a bit of silly fun, really, and so naturally something Roy fucking loathed, sad old fuck that he was.

Normally even the suggestion of watching it (or anything else even halfway interesting) would have been met with foul-mouthed refusal and something about Roy’s house, Roy’s rules, but tonight Roy just put the tea down wordlessly and sat down next to Jamie, as on the screen Martha, Jack and the Tenth Doctor (fittest of them all, although Jamie had a soft spot for Eleven) narrowly escaped an exploding flat.

Jamie smiled to himself. For all Roy was utter shit at saying stuff, he could be fucking transparent at times.

It had been dead obvious when Roy’s anger finally and fully faded, and guilt started trickling in to fill the void. It was right there in the way Roy went all the way quiet and started shooting him little looks out of the corner of his eye when he thought Jamie wouldn’t notice throughout dinner; there in the way he sat down far closer to Jamie than he normally would on the couch now, their legs all but touching.

It was as blatant an invitation as you could ever expect from Roy Kent, and tempting, but Jamie stubbornly held himself to himself, upright and with his arms crossed over his chest. Roy had been a right proper arsehole today and he hadn’t even said sorry so if he wanted a cuddle he could fucking ask for one, or he could wait until Jamie felt inclined to indulge him.

Eventually, though, after what Jamie deemed an appropriate amount of time (which may or may not have amounted to two whole minutes), he relented and allowed himself to lean against Roy, casual like, and tipping his head to rest Roy’s shoulder.

He smirked at how Roy not only failed to ask what the fuck he thought he was doing but also was very quick to put a tentative arm around his shoulders, the grip growing firmer when Jamie didn’t shrug him off or ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

For a while there was only that; the warmth of Roy’s body pressed into his; the sounds of the television. I love it when you say my name, the Master declared.

“I’m sorry about today,” Roy said suddenly. The words came haltingly, reluctantly. Still, he pressed on. “I … fucking overreacted.”

Jamie snorted. “Little bit, yeah.” Then he added, not bothering to conceal his smugness, “All the lads think you were dead mean to me.”

He glanced up at Roy who was determinedly staring at the telly while his eyebrows were doing something complicated and seemingly painful. “I think that… maybe… I got a bit… fucking worried, when we thought you’d been in that car crash.”

He offered like it was some great admission, a grand fucking reveal, and Jamie rolled his eyes. “Uh, yeah, mate, I know.”

Roy’s eyes snapped to his face at that, all disbelieving like, so Jamie rolled his eyes again, even harder. “Come on, man. Pretty obvious, that.”

For a long moment, Roy didn’t respond. He looked away from Jamie again. Then finally, “It wasn’t obvious to me.”

And the thing was, Roy sounded so fucking unhappy about it that Jamie clamped his mouth shut around a reflexive no, but you’re an idiot.

“Maybe something for Dr. Sharon, yeah,” he suggested instead, noting with some satisfaction that he was being really mature about all of this.

He’d have liked pointing that out to Roy, too, but had a feeling that maybe that would take away from the maturity a little. He’d mention it to Keeley later instead.

“Yeah,” Roy said after a moment of looking like he’d rather let Isaac kick a football straight at his head. “I’ll talk to her.”

“And maybe fucking apologize to my teammates for delaying training,” Jamie added innocently, feeling a smirk tug at his lips and then blossom into a full-fledged grin when Roy pulled back a little to stare at him, seemingly trying to gauge whether he was serious or not.

“You’re a prick,” Roy said eventually, relaxing again and sounding right fond about it.

“Mmmhm,” Jamie agreed happily, pulling his feet up on the couch and curling up closer to Roy. It was nice, this. Worth all that, maybe. “And here you are, fucking glad I’m not dead and all.”

Roy sighed. His arm around Jamie’s shoulder was warm and solid.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly enough that they might both pretend it wasn’t meant for Jamie’s ears at all. “I am.”

147 notes · View notes

tunastime · 9 months ago

Text

Inbound, Outbound

The first submas fic I ever wrote! LOL I decided I needed one final thing for april fools so you get this fic from. about a month and a half ago! I think a lot has changed since I wrote this and I'd love to come back to the reuniting :3 maybe making it longer or what have you. but for now. here you go!

Sometimes when you wait for things, they come back to you. Sometimes they don't. Emmet continues life as normal as he can until the point in which the thing he's been waiting for the most finally does come back. Today just happens to be that day. (6745 words)

Ingo comes back on a winter day that Emmet would’ve otherwise forgotten.

It’s a pervasive winter in Nimbasa this year, the sky a white-blue, grey where it touches the edges of the buildings high above his morning train into the city center. Today is just as slow as usual, fifteen stretching into thirty, stretching in to forty-five minutes as people crush their way into the train car number eleven, Emmet’s favorite car on the six-in-the-morning inbound to Nimbasa commercial district. This train doesn’t go direct to Gear Station—it’s about four blocks from the city center. Which means that the train car is filled with grey and black suits, small children, and people in coats too thin or too bright for the weather. It’s his favorite car because if he looks over the few heads currently standing in front of him, he can see a poster with Elesa on it, advertising the Nimbasa Gym in bright, yellow and black letters. He doesn’t mind the length of the ride, really, even with the extra twenty minutes of walking. It gives him enough time to think, whether that be better or worse.

Emmet sniffles, pushing the scarf further up his nose, trying to keep in the heat. He can feel his face starting to red with the cold, and the subpar heat of the train car isn’t doing much help. He likes this car—he likes the whole system, because it runs so efficiently even with the stops, but he would like it a bit more if it were properly heated. He once bore Elesa to sleep talking about the rail system near their apartment complex in the city suburbs and art district, and after that he kind of kept it to himself and the engineers on shift.

The train car is still cold, and his scarf slips down his nose again as he adjusts his grip on the handle above him. Scrunching his face, he burrows into the collar of his coat and shrinks his shoulders to make space, shutting his eyes. He moves with the train car, as he does every morning, and sighs into the fabric of his coat. He files the cold away in the back of his mind. The train ride becomes routine, which means it fades into the background of his life, where everything rests mutely.

He might be somewhat of a celebrity, but the 6am is too crowded and too tired to notice him, or Ingo, or Elesa, for that matter. Elesa could live in the city center—running a gym is a lucrative business, and her clothing line, her brand deal, the posters with her face on them, even here in this train, raked in enough money to more than sustain on. Instead, Elesa lives two streets down from him (them) in a large apartment and she holds the crook of his arm on the train to keep steady. She didn’t this morning, though, which means Emmet has a little more stability where he stands, and a little less company. Not being recognized this morning means that he slips effortlessly from the train as the doors slide open, spilling out with other shoppers and business folk. He ducks through the exit as someone holds it open, and the smile on their face lingers a bit too long when they catch his eye. He thinks the words I’m sorry for your loss might come and hit him across the face, but they only nod. Emmet moves through the crowd alone again.

He makes his way carefully up the steps and onto the sidewalks of inner-Nimbasa, stepping with purpose as he stares down at his shoes. There’s a fine layer of ice and slush on the ground, but no snow. Anything that did fall just added to the grey slush on the side of the sidewalk, crunching under his boots as he walked. The cold still bites at his face as he makes his way down the block and across the street. He can still feel his fingers, though, which is a good sign. A few more streets of cold and slushy snow and trying to block the wind with his coat and he would be in the relative warmth of Gear Station, all tan marble and smooth floors.

Winter. Of course the winter lingered. It was still winter when Emmet got off the train alone and it was still winter and cold and breezy and dark, now, as Emmet stood in his (their) office, watching the clock.

5:45pm. He realizes he hasn’t eaten all day as a hard pang stabs through his stomach. Emmet takes a breath. It’s easy to fall into routine when nothing else seems to fit. It’s what he tells himself. He finds a way to make the day go faster, maybe looking for something at the end that wasn’t just the next day. He never had this issue before, waiting for the day to pass only for it to bleed into the next, and the next, and the next, and for the weekend to stutter and pause that blissful continuing trend. Work, go home, sleep, repeat. It gave no time to think about anything else—especially not Ingo.

It took longer the first year. Everything constantly pressed hard on the wound still open. He still remembers when everything shut down around him. It wasn’t winter then. It was spring, where the air still twinged cool, but he wasn’t kicking snow off his shoes before he entered the engineer’s office and ducked down the hall and to his and Ingo’s space. It was an almost instant halt, like throwing the emergency break. Emmet’s whole life screeched and threw up smoke.

He remembers the first time someone questioned him that wasn’t the city police, staring up at him, mouth moving with words he didn’t understand. He stuttered, unable to form an answer to what do you think happened? How was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to put pieces together when he felt like he had been smashed into star fragments?

The subway shut down for three months straight. He could barely pick himself out of bed, and when he did, he couldn’t make it out of the door. He remembers lying in the dark for far too long, turning off his phone so no calls came through. The day bled into night and into the next day, with no routine, no operating procedure. Everything in his life revolved around Ingo—and now there was a distinctly Ingo shaped hole in his chest that he couldn’t fill. He remembers crawling his way out of the comforters and making it to the threshold of his bedroom door, sinking to the ground and staying there. It was only when Elesa made her way in that he moved, coaxed onto the couch to drink a glass of water. There were days where neither of them spoke. Elesa would set a duffel in the corner of Emmet’s room and a toothbrush in his bathroom and wordlessly, the space became hers too. Half asleep one night, she mumbled, very quietly, that it had been days since she’d had the energy to battle. The Nimbasa gym waitlist had grown to fifteen people. He said he was sorry. She laughed like she meant it. Tired. They were tired. Life moved on without them for a while. He held Elesa’s hand.

Every dark coat had been him, every set of stripes, every loud and hearty laugh. The space in their fridge, in their bathroom, on their couch, the spaces Elesa subconsciously left when she visited, all stayed like he might appear and fill them. At some point the spaces became memories, and the memories became a dull ache. The dull ache let him work, and the work became an ache instead. And then he started looking for answers. When he found none, he just kept looking.

He hangs up his white coat, noise from Gear Station trickling into the background. He puts his hat on the hook next to it.

He is Emmet. He feels okay today.

He combs his hair back with his fingers, stepping back to navigate around to his desk, shutting off the computer screen and moving through the familiar motions of packing away his day. Eelektross snuffs, sleeping curled around his chair, still nursing a singe from their last battle. The rest of his team are tucked away in pokeballs, neatly set into the bag still resting on the desk. He runs a hand over the scales on Eelektross’ head, listening to the snort turn into a purr, long and rumbly. At least someone’s enjoying themselves. He leans against his desk.

“Excellent job today, Eelektross,” he says. “Too good.”

Eelektross rumbles out an affirmative sound Emmet’s learned to recognize over the years. Tired and comfortable and thoroughly pleased. He’ll be sleeping under a huge eel weight tonight, most likely, which would be good for them both.

From the corner, Chandelure chirps. He glances up, watching her tilt lazily back and forth, flame flickering under the office’s lamplight. He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head at her.

“Ah—” he says. “I forgot, Chandelure. Is it time for the rounds, then?”

She chirps again, twirling in place. She nearly bumps the wall, moving out of the way as she remembers how much space she actually takes up. Emmet snorts, shaking his head. He rises from his leaning on the desk, shaking the feeling back into his right leg.

Gathering his coat and hat again, he pulls it over his shoulders, and opens the office door for Chandelure.

The two wander out into the filling-full train station. It’s busy now that so many are leaving work, Gear Station echoing with his footsteps and the tired laughter and voices of patrons filing in and out of the turnstiles. As he steps out, the noise is almost instant. Ah—he caught departing crowds at the wrong time, as the battle subway came to a close at the days end and people were busy reassigning themselves and marking their places for tomorrow. The energy in the station is bright and cheery. He lifts his hat, waving one hand, smiling with just his mouth. Chandelure spins, singing to herself. He offers a little bow as he departs, listening to cheers of his name until he manages to slip into the service stairs and away from the light and the noise.

He follows the familiar service corridor where it diverges from the central station, staring up into the rafters and eyes tracking across the windows high above him. Night trickles in, noise obscured by layers of stone and brick and marble. The stretch of granite towers above him, echoing the flicker of pride he feels swirling in his chest. Chandelure twirls ahead of him, leading him down to the closed lines as his eyes drag away from pidove in the rafters, cooing to themselves.

It’s important to walk the lines at night—mostly for the host of patrat and joltik and the occasional drilbur that liked to make the tunnels their home, but also to check that each car remained stationary, that light still flooded the dim tunnels, that someone wasn’t trapped. It wasn’t always his job—not with so many that staffed Gear Station, both above and below him. Maintenance often fell to him when it was needed, where he lingered in the office long after his scheduled shift end, when the last outbound train returned.

The stairs down are quieter and darker than the rush of energy and light and cold air above him in Gear Station.

Emmet starts his way toward the platform. Whatever he couldn’t find in the tunnels today, Eelektross would find later tomorrow morning, well before the first battle train. It was good he didn’t have to worry about the main tracks as often—not for checks and not for maintenance. He would mourn his sleep schedule much more than he already did if that were the case. Walking those initial tunnels would take him hours, knowing how far the service platform stretched.

Emmet doesn’t like this part of his job. It was always Ingo’s job. Everything seemed like it was Ingo’s job, now that it rested on his shoulders. When they’d first pitched the idea of the subway to the head of Gear Station at the time, it had been a risk Ingo automatically assumed. When he ran the night shift, safety checks were his duty, as much as they were Emmet’s in the morning. They’d assist with repair and management of the rest of the station as needed, falling into step alongside fellow engineers. There’s a small group in this tunnel now—voices echoing down the small corridor as he travels its length, a drilbur perched on their feet, warily inspecting a section of track. He supposed he considered himself lucky—any scheduled repairs to the Battle Subway could be completed shortly after the subway retired for the day, meaning he could be present if anything went wrong. This bit of maintenance was purely preventative—making sure nothing would be jostled loose by a rogue Earthquake.

Emmet ducks passed the group, nodding along as they toss bits of information his way, wishing him a good night.

Fetching the flashlight from his pocket, Emmet smacks it against his hand. The beam flickers to life, illuminating the tunnel in front of him far more than the stretch of yellow floodlights above his head. He sweeps the beam around the tunnel, listening for anything or anyone.

Emmet makes his way off the main platform and into the tunnel proper, along the service grate, eyes following the tracks. He stands at the edge of the platform for a moment, gazing into an empty car, light shining through. It reflects off the posters and signage inside, dull yellow where the lights inside don’t shine. He shivers. The air feels cold and charged, like a stray joltik had crawled up his neck and now rested in the collar of his coat. He turns the collar out, sweeping with one hand. No joltik. Rolling his shoulders back, Emmet steps back from the car and continues onward. A few feet ahead of him, Chandelure twirls idly, like she’s waiting for him to catch up. He waves the beam of the flashlight at her and she startles, chirring out, annoyed.

“You can check on your own if you don’t want to wait,” he tells her.

She warbles, waving her arms back and forth. He makes an affirmative noise.

“That’s what I thought.”

The large loop stretches further on to his left, where he can’t see, blocked by the stretch of railcar. He follows Chandelure through the space between the cars, ducking his head as they step onto the opposing platform, and continue their way back up. He pauses for a moment as they do, feeling his body go light as his head spins. He reaches out to the side wall, hand against the cold stone as he takes a long breath. Emmet blinks back spots for a moment, shaking his head gently. His stomach feels like its in knots, rolling over itself as he seems to settle from his moment of vertigo. No lunch will do that to you, he supposes.

Chandelure flickers. They’re almost done, which is good. It means he’ll be able to sit down for a second before he has to run to the train. They won’t need to check the two-team tunnel tonight—not only has Emmet not been able to run it, he checked it two weeks ago. He lingered a very long time in there, didn’t he? It had put a terrible ache in his chest enough to call Elesa to walk him home. Emmet frowns—Chandelure flickers again, dimming, brightening, dimming, brightening again. There’s that rush of dizziness again. He breathes out. He’s too far in his head, today, isn't he?

“Chandelure,” he says, in a way that almost reminds him of Ingo—a little out of breath from walking, but mostly just curious. “Is something wrong?”

She chimes, wobbling in place, eyes narrowing. It feels hesitant. Emmet shudders. After a beat, he reaches up, placing a hand on the near-glass surface of Chandelure’s body. She moves back toward him, chiming again.

“Right,” he says. “It’s different, right? Something’s changed.”

Another chirp.

Something tugs at his mind. Wasn’t there something he read about clairvoyance in pokemon? Future-telling, future-seeing, or whatever. But Chandelure’s behavior isn’t indicative of anything. That would just be odd. He can feel for just a moment the way his heart thumps a little faster against the line of his jaw. It couldn’t be that. It’s just what Elesa always said—he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

“Yyyyep-yep,” he says, mostly under his breath, voice thick. “But it should be fine, Chandelure. Let’s keep going, our track moves forward.”

She tilts back and forth, like a wave of a hand. Emmet snorts as they start forward.

“You know I’m always one for a battle,” he says plainly. She chirrs, moving around to his right side, putting herself between the train car and Emmet. He follows her movement only for a second as they walk up the tracks, eyes still fixed on the steps up to the station.

The city subway still rumbles through the ground and the walls around him, the noise soft and consistent as train cars move past. He pauses, listening in, shutting his eyes for a moment. It was late, now. He could feel a tired ache seeping into the creases of his elbows and right under his knees from standing all day. His head was starting to hurt, spinning as he stood completely still. He sighs roughly, squeezing his eyes tightly for just a moment. He’s lucky the pain didn’t extend to his feet—he would have to do quite the jog to catch the outbound train toward home, unless Elesa happened to be staying late again and could walk him back.

They start together toward the entrance as Emmet does his final scan of the furthest-out platform, satisfied nothing is out of place. The same cold air of the train tunnels permeates even here, despite the warm wash of yellow light across the walls and marble pillars. Emmet breathes in, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders as he stretches over his head, screwing up his face as his back pulls. He nearly complains—he feels much too old for this—but he can feel the sharp poke of Ingo’s voice in his mind—well, I’m two minutes older, so you can imagine how I feel—and it stops him pretty quickly. He’s not even thirty-five. What can he do but complain, right? Emmet fishes his keys from his pocket prematurely, ducking between the cars as he steps onto the loading platform.

Chandelure stops ahead of him. Her trill is quiet as Emmet reaches her side.

There is a man standing on the platform.

Emmet is very good at telling cosplayers from the real thing. You would think that would be some sort of a joke, but they really like to be authentic. Ingo and him never sold any merchandise of their coats or hats for fear of, well, that. This. Whatever this person was doing, standing on the closed platform in a ruined coat that looked like Ingo’s.

Emmet swallows. Looks like and not is, right? Looks like and not. Not. Certainly not. Not when he turns and catches his eye. The breath lodges itself in Emmet’s throat, burning hot. Certainly not. Because he is very good at telling illusions from real life, and there are no dark types in the tunnels that can use copycat, and copycat can’t extend the likeness of himself onto another person who looks. Like. Who looks like his brother. And isn’t. Emmet tries to breathe. The breath is sharp on his teeth. His hands are shaking when his vision blurs, and he smears tears across his face.

Ingo looks frightened for a moment. When he looks into Emmet’s eyes, the grey looks washed out. Emmet breathes out, feeling it catch as he sighs, biting the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. There’s. It’s like nothing moves behind his eyes. Not a faint light of understanding. Not a spark of clarity. Ingo places a foot behind him. The line of Emmet’s spine goes cold all at once.

He stands still as he watches a slow realization pass over his brother’s face like a red flush, some flicker in his expression, before he sees his chest seize and breath stutter. Ingo blinks hard and fast, like it might be helping something, eyes flicking over Ingo’s face. He reaches forward, as if he’s expecting to push through Emmet and into air instead, and not the solid body he stands there with. It’s like his body moves before he realizes what’s actually happening. Emmet watches his movements, still calculated in the same way as they’ve always been. Emmet drags in a breath, sniffling hard.

The lines of Ingo’s face pull. Emmet reaches out to him, copying. It’s what he’s always done—what they’ve always done. He steps forward, lurching to meet him.

The mirror image of himself, his brother, his Ingo, collides with him hard. Emmet feels him crumple into his arms as he drags him forward, arms locking around his ribcage. He squeezes Ingo tight to him. They buckle, Ingo leaning into him for support as his body is wracked with sobs. Emmet struggles to breathe as he sinks to his knees, smearing dirt and dark grime over his white pant-knees and boots.

Ingo’s hands fist in his coat as they fall. He squeezes Emmet in his arms, fighting for breath as he presses his face into his shoulder. Emmet laughs and it morphs into sobs. He turns his face into the tattered collar of Ingo’s coat and squeezes his eyes shut. Ingo. Ingo. Always Ingo. The bony joints of his elbows digging into his ribs as a kid, crushing him with his weight when he lost a pokemon battle, standing in his bedroom door at night when he had a nightmare. Cooking beside him, picking up his coffee, watching him tie Emmet’s tie around his own neck before passing it back to him. His brother Ingo, breathing too shallowly under his hands as he holds him, shaking with the effort of holding himself upright. He can feel the bones of his spine and shoulderblades, sharp and protruding even through several layers of fabric. His face looked so pale and thin. But Ingo holds him tightly, much tighter than he ever remembers, and it’s not just fear or relief or grief holding him to that strength, either. Emmet wheezes out, word unforming in his throat.

It’s not a nightmare. It feels real and warm and solid, like Ingo, like the platform under his knees, like the cold breeze on the back of his neck. Ingo may look different, far too gaunt for Emmet’s liking (and he supposes, now, that it may be like looking in a mirror, and he wonders how many bones Ingo can feel under his coat) but it’s him. No illusion or actor would crumble like this. It couldn’t be some sick joke—right?

He manages out words, and the first thing he chokes out through tears, voice warbling hard, is:

“Ingo—”

“Emmet,” Ingo grits out.

“I am Emmet—” Emmet says weakly. “You are Ingo. You are real.”

“I—” Ingo chokes. “I am. I’m real.”

Ingo certainly feels that way. The breath echoes in his lungs, damp and wobbly. Emmet can feel his heart slam against his ribcage. He feels so small in his arms but he shakes with the effort of keeping himself stable and with the effort of holding on. He can feel his shoulders move and the way his tears have started to soak through Emmet’s coat and shirt. He’s real.

Emmet laughs weakly, equally as wet.

“You are very strong,” he says softly, sniffling in, almost amused. “What happened to my brother?”

Ingo laughs. Emmet feels a new wave of tears bubble up in his chest and in his eyes. He presses his face into his shoulder a little more, like it were possible.

“Too much,” Ingo says, voice pitching. “Much too much.”

Emmet sighs into his shoulder, a sound he doesn’t think Ingo’s ever heard before. Ingo’s seen him cry a few times, especially when they were kids, but Ingo was always the more emotional of the two. This sound is such an odd mix of relief and grief and exhaustion pulled from his chest, like all the energy had trickled out of him.

Emmet holds tight to his brother in front of him, words not surfacing like they should. He only manages the weak sobs pressed into the collar of his coat. He screws his eyes shut again, clinging onto Ingo’s coat. The tile is cold and unyielding under his knees. Burning starts to prickle through his shins. Real feelings. Real sensations. Something to tether himself to. Ingo sniffles, coughing damply. He lets his body deflate a touch. Emmet’s chest twists and squeezes tight enough around his heart he feels it shove its way into his voice-box and beat there, pattering away.

“It’s you,” Emmet finally shudders out, voice breaking, sounding much more fragile than he wants to allow. Ingo burrows closer like it may do something. Emmet squeezes him. “Go-Go, please tell me this is real.”

“I promise,” Ingo manages. “I swear it.”

“You do?”

“You are Emmet,” he says slowly, sniffling. “I am your brother. I am real.”

“Good—” Emmet shudders. “Good.”

Ingo makes a pained noise, sighing out to his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. Emmet shakes his head, stilted from where he rests it.

“Don’t be sorry. Just—” he trails off. Just. Don’t leave again. Yeah.

Ingo nods slowly. After a moment he says:

“You are real,” in a half questioning tone. Emmet nods.

“I am. I am not a dream,” he says, huffing out a wet laugh. “You can pinch me.”

Ingo snorts.

“That’s not how that works,” He argues, own voice damp and amused. Emmet thumps his back between his shoulderblades.

“Go-Go,” he complains. Ingo wheezes. This feels so familiar it hurts.

“Sorry,” Ingo says, but the tone that leaks into his voice sounds like he’s very much not sorry. “I’m sorry.”

Emmet huffs again, soft and brittle.

“Ingo, I missed you,” he manages. “I missed you so much. So very much.”

“I know,” Ingo says softly, relaxing his hands, splaying them out over Emmet’s coat. “And yet you kept the subway running in my absence—” he huffs, amused. “Bravo.”

Emmet laughs once, just a small little sound, before it turns back into sobs, muffled against Ingo’s tattered coat. He leans his weight back as much as he can, trying to pull Ingo further into his arms, as if it were possible. Light cascades around them as Chandelure floats over, chiming softly to herself. Ingo pats Emmet’s back, running a little line over his shoulderblades as they sit together. He feels Ingo shift, as if he’s turned his head toward his Chandelure. Warmth blossoms in his chest.

Ingo mumbles out something Emmet almost hears.

“She took your absence very hard,” Emmet says, trying to add to a conversation he hadn’t heard.

Ingo sighs, short and soft. They’re less holding on and more leaning, now.

“Oh,” he says softly. It’s all he says before he turns his head back into his shoulder. Emmet pats his back. He feels like someone’s taken toothpicks to his nerves. Why does it hurt? Why does Ingo sound so lost?

He leans back from Ingo, but he doesn’t let go. His hands find his shoulders, pulling away enough to see him properly. Emmet’s eyes scan his face. They’re the same grey as he’s always known them, but so much more tired, now, deep lines and dark circles around the bottom. He’s frowning, just a little, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, tears still falling haphazardly. Ingo sniffles. His hair lies the same, despite being unkept, and he’s got a terrible facial hair situation going on, like he’d forgotten how to use a razor. When Emmet studies him, Ingo’s face goes soft. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but shuts it when Emmet frowns.

“Ingo,” Emmet says, frown deepening, eyebrows furrowing. He sniffles. He prods at the hollow of his cheek, looking perplexed. “You look horrible, like someone’s shaken twenty pounds off you.”

“Ah,” Ingo says, looking away.

“You may be much stronger than you were, but you look like you may fall over if I let you go.”

Ingo swallows. His expression morphs a few times, until he shuts his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I might.”

“Ah!” Emmet says, holding to his shoulders a bit tighter. Ingo smiles, just the sides of his mouth lifting. It feels right. “Don’t.”

Ingo snorts.

“I’ll try.”

Emmet nods, mouth a fine line. Ingo’s eyes flick over his face, this time. Emmet feels like pokemon under a magnifying glass being scrutinized. Ingo watches as Emmet blinks tears away, watches them track over his face, and watches as he reaches up to wipe them. Emmet shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening at the end unexpectedly. He swallows down a wave of cold guilt. Ingo’s hands clasp around his biceps.

“Emmet—” he starts.

“It’s okay,” Emmet manages out, expression cracking. He sniffles in, pulling in a fast breath as he does. He hears it catch, feels the shudder than comes with it. “You—it’s you.”

“That’s right,” Ingo says meekly, loosening his grip. Emmet’s wobbly smile falters, just for a moment.

“That’s good,” Emmet sighs. He blinks a few times, sniffs again, wipes at his face. Ingo’s hands fall away from his arms and into his own lap.

The frown lingers on Ingo’s face long after he’s dropped his hands. Emmet rises to a slow, shaky stand. Stuffing his gloves in his pocket, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, giving Ingo a watery smile. When Ingo looks up at him, Emmet feels something click into his chest, warm, full, and settling. He smiles wider, enough to feel his eyes start to squint shut, enough to watch Ingo copy him, and the smile looks so natural on his face. It’s good. This is good. This. Feels. Good. It feels good.

“I don’t think you should sit on the floor anymore, Ingo,” Emmet says. He extends his hand.

“I think I’m a bit too old for it,” Ingo tells him. Ingo takes it. He holds his warm hand, half palm and half wrist. Emotion tumbles in his chest, painfully tight, as he leads Ingo toward the tunnel entrance.

There’s something Ingo isn’t saying. Emmet knows it’s important. It’s not important enough to say now, that is, but he can feel it in the air of Ingo next to him as they duck into the empty station, back to the office, away from eyes that might say something before Emmet is ready to let the world know who showed up at his doorstep. It’s fine if Ingo doesn’t remember his pokemon, or the layout of Gear Station, or how he should feel, or where he’s been. He can’t ask him to. Not when there was a moment where Ingo couldn’t remember him, no matter how brief. He pushes fear deep into his chest and refuses to let it rise up.

He won’t let them diverge. He won’t let Ingo derail.

Whatever happens next, he’s not letting go of him.

The night comes easier than most.

It starts with Emmet sending a text—it’s last minute, which he despises, but he informs the head of the station that he isn’t feeling well and won’t be in at work for the next few days. He receives a spaced, but enthusiastic reply, and a reminder to use his sick time before he loses it. Probably better that he’s taking more days rather than less. Emmet feeds their pokemon, moving around the kitchen as he hears the shower running in the room across from his own. Busying himself with routine means he worries a little less about the question tugging at his mind, or the rush of anxiety and energy as he remembers everything, replaying it over and over again in his head. What if it isn’t Ingo that steps from the room? What if he looks completely different? What if—

Galvantula bumps his hand, nibbling at his sleeve. He’s still holding the bowl of food. He sets it on the floor as instructed, briefly pulled away from his thought.

Now, situated in the living room, a takeout bag rests on the coffee table, where Emmet is sitting next to the table, pulling out foil wrapped sandwiches and bags of chips and a too-shaken can of soda. He’s been watching Ingo’s face for a good part of the evening, seeing as lines come and go, how the sharp shape worsens when he frowns. Now, in a thick, high collared sweater and pajamas, grime scrubbed away with a hot shower, Ingo looks very small, and very alive, and very cold. Emmet pokes him with a socked foot as Ingo takes another ravenous bite of his egg and cheese sandwich. He has egg yolk all over his hands and down his chin.

“I am Emmet,” he says, an awed smile lingering on his face. “And I am certain you are going to choke if you eat that fast.”

Ingo blinks, still chewing. Maybe two sandwiches was the right move after all. Emmet hasn’t touched the one he bought for himself yet. He’s been too busy making sure Ingo drinks a glass of water. Ingo flushes, though, as he realizes he’s made an runny-egg mess of the plate balanced on his knee. He looks sheepishly away, searching for something to wipe his hands with. When he can’t find anything, he sets the sandwich down, and wanders back to the kitchen.

“It’s like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Emmet remarks. His stomach flips a bit at the implication, wondering when the last time Ingo actually had a warm meal in his body. He realizes he doesn’t even know where he’s been. What could be wrong with him. What he’d seen. He seems dazed, a bit lost, a bit spacey. It had taken him a good thirty seconds to recognize Emmet on that platform—though, if Emmet’s honest with himself, and he often tries to be, he isn’t much better. He’d swallowed down confusion just as fast as he could, and that was only a moment before he’d thrown himself at his brother. Ingo’s shoulders are a tense line.

“I’ve eaten,” Ingo says.

“Good.”

When Ingo wanders back over, sitting in his same spot, Emmet pushes the glass of water toward him. Ingo nods, smiling a little as he picks it up and takes a long drink. After he’s finished and set the glass down, Emmet starts on his sandwich. Between his first bite of hashbrown and egg and the next, he says:

“Ingo,” followed by. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The two go quiet, even with the sound of foil and sandwiches. Ingo swallows, staring into his patterned plate. Emmet watches his face as much as he did prior. He can tell when a pause is calculated for drama, for intrigue, for embellishment, but this one is full of Ingo’s mind scrambling. Emmet can’t see it in action, but he can certainly imagine a million Ingo’s running around in his brain space, trying to compose an answer for Emmet that would satisfy him. Ingo takes another bite in the meantime.

Emmet stares into bits of potato in the foil on his lap. They’re not very interesting.

“What happened?” he asks softly, not looking up at him. He hears Ingo sigh, and sees him put the plate down in his peripheral.

“I—” Ingo starts, and the stutter of his voice is indicative of something very clear to Emmet.

“Ingo,” he says, looking up suddenly. “Don’t.”

Ingo swallows. His throat bobs. Emmet doesn’t even have to finish his sentence.

“I’ve forgotten everything,” Ingo says, in a way that is so un-Ingo-like. “Almost everything. It’s just—there. Right out of reach. Right out of my reach.”

The television casts color across Ingo’s face, obscuring his expression. Emmet fights to keep his expression cool and neutral, despite the way his heart begs to jump into his throat and throw a party. He has a sandwich to eat, not a heart. Silly heart. Silly Emmet. He supposes now that’s why Ingo’s reaction to Chandelure was so stunted. Or the way he skirted away from the station like it may reach out and pinch him like a dwebble. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly.

“I don’t know why,” Ingo continues, picking at the seeds on top of his bagel. “I don’t know how, either. And I don’t think I can stomach the where and what, yet. I feel sick when I think too hard. Dizzy and sick.”

Emmet swallows roughly.

“It’s okay,” he says. Ingo shakes his head, shutting his eyes. Emmet watches his face warp, faltering as he holds back whatever emotion’s just bubbled up in his chest. He screws his eyes shut, new tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. “Go, listen—”

Emmet reaches. He brushes Ingo’s hand, and Ingo jerks back on instinct, recoiling. He looks at Emmet, expression blank, nervous, then cracking all at once. Emmet’s own face falters as they meet eyes. Emmet holds his hand over Ingo’s, waiting, still crouching in front of him. He tries for a smile, even as Ingo goes blurry.

“I’m glad you remembered me,” he warbles out. “We can keep going from there. Our tracks move forward.”

“I don’t believe my car in this two car train is very safe, Em,” Ingo sniffles. He takes Emmet’s hand, though, and Emmet curls his fingers over his, both hands around his one hand. He squeezes ever so.

“We’re known for our safety checks, brother,” Emmet says gently. “It’s just our standard operating procedure.”

Ingo laughs softly. The sound is damp, but real. Trying to be something positive. It’s all he can ask of him.

“Understood,” Ingo says. He nods, setting his face, despite the way tears still cloud his eyes, and his mouth still wobbles as he sniffles in. “We shall depart then.”

“We will!” Emmet says, squeezing his hands again. He drops them, then, patting Ingo’s knees like he were beating on the table. Ingo huffs out a laugh, shooing him away.

It doesn’t hurt any less, knowing how much might be absent. But it soothes it a bit to watch Ingo smile.

Later, sitting on the couch together, Ingo rests against Emmet, sandwiches eaten, chips picked through, water drank. His face has regained a touch of color, hands no longer shaking with exertion. He breathes slowly and softly as Emmet flips through television mindlessly, looking for anything. To his left, Eelektross snores, head resting on his knee. He runs a hand absently along the scales at the top of his head, listening to the drone of purr and the chatter of late night television.

“Brother,” Emmet says softly. “Ingo.”

Ingo makes no sound. His breath stays even and slow. Emmet snorts. Right. He supposes it’s payback—he can’t remember the amount of times he’d fallen asleep during movie night with Elesa.

Elesa.

Emmet startles.

Reaching for his phone, he hastily manages a message to Elesa. Something like: Come over ASAP. Good news. Very good. About Ingo.

But his message reads in all lowercase like a run-on sentence, so he hopes in the morning Elesa will decipher it.

Emmet leans back, Ingo’s sleeping weight falling to Emmet’s side as he lies down on the couch cushions. His brother only partially adjusts in his sleep, better tucking into one side, head on his shoulder. Warm with sleep and food, Emmet lets his eyes unfocus. There’s too much static resting right under his skin to let him sleep.

This is good, though. A moment of reprieve for him, and desperately needed for Ingo. Maybe in the morning they’ll talk about getting rid of that ridiculous beard of his.

Emmet hums softly to himself. He listens to the drone of the television for a moment, blissfully tired. There’s a moment of quiet just long enough to feel sleep tug at him.

Someone pounds on his door.

Ah. Well.

Miscalculation on his part, then.

#submas #subway master emmet #subway master ingo #pokemon black and white #pokemon fic #pokemon black and white fic #submas fic #it's very. this is very special to me #i think it could be longer! and a little more detailed! and i think i wanna come back to it at some point and post it on ao3 #it's kind of like this. oh well i've seen other executions i like just as much as what i decided #and it makes me wanna weave more in #i think i could eventually but not today LMAO #maybe once i post my other fic i'll rewrite this as the second chapter. big eyes.#yesyes.. that's what i'll do < shut up tuna

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ikemenomegas · 2 years ago

Text

Anchor (up to me love)

Eleven days late, but this is my first entry for Mermay (can we call it June-aid then?) Thank you all so much for your patience. This is the longest one-shot I have written to date and while I'm not completely satisfied with it, I'm proud enough of finishing it. Of course the title references the song by Novo Amor

pairing: Mermaid!Uchiha Sasuke x Reader

word count: 10,014

cw: mentions of drowning, description of wounds, an attempt made at transformation body horror, mentions of death of parents but I couldn't kill Sasuke's entire family again... seemed too cruel to put him in a universe where that happens every single time.

Ao3 link for those who prefer reading there

You heard the thrashing sound first, like an animal caught in a trap, and then you heard the voice, which was far more human.

You knew better than to approach a beast, but on the shores of your own kingdom, you couldn’t in good conscience leave someone to fend for themselves. Especially if they were too injured to drag themselves inland.

The shoreline was studded with sharp stones, broken long ago from cliffs that had since retreated from the sea. They concealed the figure until you were nearly upon him. He was partially submerged, but you could smell the blood, see its thick wash in the water. It turned the foam churned up around him a rusty, raspberry tea color. He groaned, pressing a handful of some shredded fiber to the wound on his chest.

You gasped, involuntary, and he turned, whipped around with teeth bared.

That’s how you saw them: the sharp incisors and all the sharp teeth after that. Inhuman, made to tear. You almost couldn’t believe it, even when you looked below the syrupy, red water and saw the tail, the diaphanous fins drawing in close so it was nearly whip-like, flicking a warning.

You froze, spreading your fingers wide on the stone to show that you carried no weapon in your hands.

“Let me help,” you breathed, unsure whether to retreat, but afraid to appear threatening.

The mer flinched back. There was a ruddy tint to his eyes, which was more apparent depending on the subtle angling of his head. He looked scared, pain flashing across his expression when he moved wrong.

“Why?” he hissed back after a tense pause, strained. His voice was faintly accented, but not really different from the tones of the northernmost islands in the archipelago kingdom to which you belonged.

There wasn’t a good reason, except that something magic and nearly relegated to legend was in front of you and you did not want to see it die, not at the hands of hungry predators. If he had been a man you would have helped him to shore, ran for a doctor, but you didn’t think the creature in front of you would tolerate more human hands.

You tore a strip off the long linen wrapping over your arms and body in a kind of tunic. You poured water from a skin on your hip over the makeshift compress and then passed it to the stranger as a gesture of goodwill. Freshwater drew poison from wounds of the sea.

The mer looked blearily at your outstretched hand and took the cloth. He hissed when it pressed against part of the wound but did not let go, pressing harder until the compress was half stained with his blood.

He eyed you warily. He made another pained noise as he pulled the compress from his torn flesh. It made a horrible wet sound as it pealed away. He held it out for you to pour more water upon it. You did and tore another strip from your clothing for another field dressing.

“There is danger in remaining in the open sea while you heal,” you said softly.

He had bound his wound best he could with pieces of your clothing and the bleeding had eased some, although not much.

He narrowed his eyes as though measuring your intention.

“There's a cove, not far from here. I can show you,” you offered

“Where?” he was demanding but you could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

You sidled carefully around him, angling towards the water.

“We have to swim to get there.”

He nodded, tense but for now acquiescing to the logic in your words.

You carefully tied what was left of your clothing so that no trailing ends risked snagging as you swam and waded deeper into the water. It was warm, but you still shivered at the faint chill against your skin and the mer’s proximity as you slipped into the ocean.

You moved slowly, aware of the mermaid's injuries. It was not a long way to go to the hidden entrance to a place you had discovered years before. You hesitated only for a moment, and then dipped underwater. This put you firmly in the mermaid’s natural habitat. It was, in a way, a show of trust. You dived deeper and deeper, ignoring the pressure in your ears and your chest. The sounds of the mermaid swimming behind you were somewhat unnerving. They were the sounds of a creature both larger and stronger than you in the water, and he was following you. You shook the thought away, moving water with your hands to propel yourself down to the underwater tunnel burrowing between stone and coral and two the protected lagoon beyond.

You pulled yourself through carefully, flicking your feet in small precise motions to avoid drifting into the rough, salt pocked stone. The place you were taking the mer was safe precisely because it was a place difficult to reach both by land and by sea. On land, this bit of coast belonged to the royal family alone; by sea, the pathways through these closely sentried rocks twisted and turned, making a treacherous labyrinth below and a shielding wall above.

You took careful stock of your air. Even though you had been underwater for more than a minute already, this blessing of your noble blood would not last forever. You followed the signs placed long ago to guide swimmers who knew where they wanted to go, and within another handful of minutes emerged into the wide clear waters of an ardent bay.

The slow speed of your only human limbs was perhaps a good thing. The mer following you was visibly exhausted even after what should have been a short journey for him. You led him close to the edge of the water where shallow scoops filled with soft sand and colorful corals and waving fronds of seaweed made comfortable little environments. Too deep for a human to rest in, but it seemed perfect for an injured sea creature.

You pulled yourself up onto the smooth stone bordering the little cove.

“I’ll be back,” you promised.

The mer looked up at you, lines of exhaustion on his face. After a moment, you untied a bracelet from your wrist, made from woven threads of golden sea-silk and three beads, green and red and black strung along it. You offered it to the mer.

“I don’t wish for you to feel trapped here. If at any time you wish to leave, find this color in the wall.” You pointed to the red veined stone. You moved your finger to the black stone and then the green. “Follow the tunnel marked in this order. To return, follow the reverse pattern.”

He reached out for the bracelet, plucking it from your palm without touching your skin.

“I'll come back,” you said once again.

The mer just swished his tail and said nothing to your promise.

You slipped back into the castle, feet bare, hair and clothes dripping.

A strong, musical voice called your name. “How many times have I told you not to track water inside,” Mei said, exasperated.

“I’ll clean it up.”

She sighed. “Aren’t there better things to do with your time?”

You looked blankly back at the trail of droplets and footprints, but your mind was already racing ahead to the things you needed, what you could leave at the lagoon in case it was difficult to return or the mer wanted space while he healed, what kind of books could be in the library, what kind of medicines could work on –

Your sister called your name again. “Are you listening?”

You turned her, half startled.

She sighed again and waved you onward. “Go on.”

She gave you a soft look when you all but beamed at her and continued on your way.

The mermaid’s injury was severe. You spent the next few weeks going down to the lagoon as often as you could. You brought amphorae of fresh water, pots of fresh and salt preserved food - as much fish as you could bring until the mermaid expressed his frustration at the lack of variety and you tried bringing him things from the land, which he seemed to enjoy and eat easily enough - bandages and medicines, sea plants that he instructed you to fetch with imperious expectation, and whatever new knowledge you could scrounge up from the palace library. And what you got in turn was a name.

Sasuke.

It was a beautiful name, you thought, sibilant as the shushing sea, with a bite at the end like cold spray thrown up by a crashing wave. The more days you spent with him, the more obvious his beauty became to you. It was not only a physical attraction, although he made you wish that your skills in the visual arts could properly capture him. If you could paint, you thought you could spend years creating echoes of the way his fins rippled as he moved, a language all their own. After that, you could spend years imitating the gleaming flash of his eyes, as multifaceted as any expert cut stone, dark like lacquer or ink, then lit from within like garnets or rubies.

He was prickly as a lionfish and as curious as a kitten. He never seemed overly delighted when you visited, but if you were gone for more than a day or two, he demanded to know where you had been.

“I have duties to attend to in the castle,” you explained one day. You and Sasuke were taking refuge in the shadow of a cliff as you helped smear a strong, green scented paste on new linen strips with which to bind Sasuke’s freshly washed wound. It still bled sluggishly when exposed, deep as it had been, but it did not seem to be infected.

“You’re not stealing all this stuff, are you?”

You snorted an inelegant laugh. “No.”

He let you help him tie the bandages. Sasuke flicked his tail in such precise movements to stay in place. You didn’t know of anyone who had been this close to a mermaid in decades. The dreamy tales told by sailors carried a wishful magic all their own, but were not likely factual unless there was a mermaid or several sitting clear as day on every spit of land and jut of rock from here to the Land of Whirlpools. All the recorded accounts you had found so far were recollections from those who sailed, who watched at the boundaries of day and night, who weren’t sure what they saw.

“The queen of this country-” you tied the last bandage in a knot that could still be released even once the cloth was swollen with water - “she’s my elder sister. It means I got to grow up in the palace, without everyone paying attention to what I was doing.”

Sasuke went very quiet.

“I know a lot of secret ways in and out.” You glanced up to where the curving roofs of the tallest buildings were barely visible from the cliff upon which it was perched. “And I get to learn anything I want.” There were lots of things you could do that Mei couldn’t, or wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t a bad life. You had always known this. It was just a little lonely.

“Do you need anything else?” you asked the mer.

He propped himself up on the rocks. You could count the faint lines of the gills still left uncovered by bandages on his ribs. They sealed themselves when he was above the waterline for any significant amount of time, which was one of the many fascinating things about him. He looked for all intents and purposes to be ignoring you as he basked on the sun, but his head was tilted towards you.

You pulled a book from within your clothes, flipped back a few pages and then settled against a rock to begin reading out loud.

The next day, you spotted the bracelet you had given him fastened around his wrist.

It had been almost a month when you finally asked Sasuke where his injuries came from. There was no pattern to the wound before, the flesh too torn for you to guess at what had caused it. You had also grown to know Sasuke better in the hours and hours you spent at the site of his convalescence. He carried with him a deep vortex of sadness and anger. It went far deeper than the visible wound.

“I don’t want to explain,” he growled as you mixed a different poultice in a silver dipped mortar. Behind that growl was that vortex, its screaming, all consuming noise.

You had never met someone like this, who had that much hurt inside. It was frightening. You had no idea what it would do to him to touch those memories, but something inside of you told you that you had to know. That not to know would be to miss some vital part of who Sasuke was.

Your fingers stilled on the mortar. “You don’t have to.”

Yet he did not leave. You did not begin to mix the medicine again.

As a child, you had been lost once in one of the terrible typhoons that struck the coast of this kingdom. It had come on suddenly, darkening the sky and obscuring both the path ahead and behind. A strange sound had joined in with the howling winds, almost like singing. Without anything else to give you direction, you had followed the sound until you came to the edge of the sea. The storm had churned the water gray and foamy white and cold, forbidding blue so dark it was nearly black. You had tucked yourself into a cluster of stones and brush, your knees pulled up to your chest. The storm had screamed around you, you were soaked through. Who knew how long you had been out there, but it was long enough that you were convinced that all there would ever be was the shrieking sound of the typhoon and the sideways driven rain. The reprieve of the eye had come on with a sudden silence.

You only realized that you were humming through the memory when the odd look Sasuke was giving you cut through your blank recollections. There were half crushed purple flowers and the variegated green mush of herbs under your hands, their scent in the air, salt on your lips, the soft lap of waves interrupted by Sasuke’s agitated movements, his eyes before you, touched red like the day you’d met him.

He moved forward, warrier than he’d been even on the day you found him. Closer.

And then some spell was broken and with a flick of his tail he vanished. The water barely rippled. A set of perfect concentric rings faded from the point he had been hardly a second before. For the first time, it was overtly apparent that Sasuke had all the marks of a deadly predator, of a monster from the deep. It did not scare you as much as it should have.

All of the books in the palace library said that mermaids were magical creatures, that they had an inborn resilience, speed and strength greater than a human, could breath both air and water, and could sing to charm men off the rocks. But despite all of Sasuke’s strength, he had come to you with a terrible wound that pulled skin and muscle as it healed, and went nearly to the bone. Your own little spells helped the healing process along. You believed that it had likely kept him from dying. It didn’t stop the slow, painful experience from taking over three months before the wound was intact enough to be without bandages for long, for Sasuke to swim with only a small wince as he turned.

You were removing the last of the linen wraps when Sasuke spoke in a low voice. “What do you know of my world? The world beneath the surface.”

You sat back, coiling the length of cloth neatly on the pile beside you.

There were very old accounts among all of the old documents you combed through in the dead of night as the sea shushed outside the windows. They spoke with an authority that indicated either brilliant enough imagination to include the utterly mundane aspects of formal proceedings, or a realism only gained by being present to witness the comings and goings of powers that were beyond the Land of Water’s borders.

Since Sasuke’s sudden arrival, you had imagined them often, wondered what role he might play. He had a proud bearing that was familiar from interacting with nobility, a precise grace that made you wonder if fighting was a regular occurrence for him, and a casual entitlement that said he was used to getting what he wanted one way or another. But you had seen these things among common folk as well. There were warriors at court from the inland farms or outlying islands who had fought their way through prejudices and more difficult circumstances who had earned every ounce of their pride and poise.

“If it is even a little like what I have read about, it is as complex or more so than the world above, but all our information is very old.”

You could not quite figure out why it stopped. There was a season of the usual terrible storms, and then slowly, nothing but supposed myths.

“But in my world, I have seen assassinations, and diplomatic disasters, and houses nearly wiped from the map.” The last words nearly broke on your tongue. All of these things had happened to your family, but you and Mei had survived it.

Sasuke carefully rotated his shoulder, looking thoughtful while he prodded at the new skin on the edges of the wound.

“You’ve fought for your life, before,” he said.

“Yes.” It was all you could say. Sasuke wasn’t asking. You didn’t know how he knew. Even Mei kept the details of your survival quiet. Not exactly secret, but the information was no longer shared frequently and few people would even think to ask. The Queen was the center of your scattered island nation. But your sister was the most important person in your life, the only family you had left. You would do anything for her, even though she could not do everything she might want to for you.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

You told him the memories that had sprang to mind and others – of those terrifying nights with the handle of a knife clutched in your fist, picking out paths by starlight, first with your father, and then with guards, and then alone until Mei, barely sixteen herself, had found you.

Sasuke drifted out of arm’s reach as you told the story that you had never told anyone. There had never been any need. The only one who knew almost every detail had lived through it with you, and neither of you spoke of it, even when the burden of ruling weighed heavily on her shoulders. You would sit side by side with a pot of tea cooling between you, and the question What would our parents do? hovered between you, unspoken.

He watched you narrowly, like some kind of magistrate, weighing every word. If you were younger, it would have filled your blood with ice cold fury. Who was anyone else to judge the impact of your experience?

Now, the words poured from your like water from a spring. You weren’t sure why, except that you knew that in order to know someone, sometimes you had to be known. And Sasuke would not stay in this tiny lagoon forever. He was restless in his healing. You already suspected that he was roaming beyond the bounds of the lagoon, following the secret pathways and tunnels carved through the rocks and going invisibly along the coast where you had found him.

Mei’s rise to her position had not been a triumphant, immediate affair. As little as three years ago, there had been assassins in your room, then blood on your hands, dripping to your wrists. You had left a trail of lopsided, tacky footprints as you had run, silent and with a denying scream in your chest, disguised as a low and continuous, thundering growl, to Mei’s wing, only to find her in a similar state, hair disarrayed, wearing only the web-worked armor she almost never took off and her most trusted student, Chojuro, with a freshly headless corpse at his feet.

Sasuke’s delicately webbed hands periodically flexed closed, betraying his feelings. The bony ridges on the knuckles stuck out only barely, and his quick growing claws were tucked away, but it made the protective feature on his hands more noticeable. Maybe because even with the translucent membrane halfway up his fingers, his hands were no less dextrous than yours. It was easy to forget the ways in which he was built to defend himself.

So, it was no short, victorious tale. This was not the version sung by performers across the archipelago, of the powerful queen in her castle by the sea who weeded out the violence sowed by the fallen kings of the last two generations, who raised islands from the ocean itself.

You left this part out, but there are never any songs about you. You are always and only the last princeps iuventutis, by the side of the queen. You were content enough, being a player at her side, but it had made you realize more than once that no one realized that you had also lived through what it had taken to restore Mei to the throne.

The shadows had shortened significantly by the time you finally trailed into silence. Sasuke seemed… it was difficult to tell through the haze of your own emotions. You felt dizzy from the telling, stunned.

When Sasuke began speaking, it was as though every word was torn from him, his discomfort palpable. You wondered if his story was also unused to being told.

He told you a story that ended roughly where yours had began, and it made you wince at the way it was like your first taste of loneliness, but echoed and repeated until it was magnified. Humans did not form pods, but they were similar to families, although apparently more central to survival below the waves. They were often related units, but they hunted together, fought together, played together. They were units of power in the few great cities jutting out from the unseen crust of the earth or drifting along among the currents.

Some of them were bound by more, by a strength of affection you might have had a hard time understanding if you did not have Mei and only Mei, and understand what it meant to lose everyone else, to lose all bonds of loyalty and love and never feel safe to make new ones. Mei despaired over your alone-ness. She had Chojuro and old Ao and Kirimi. You haven’t been able to find anyone like that.

Sasuke painted broad strokes first, and then filled in the details, as though he was distracted by the details of his own memories. He talked about the billowing clouds of crimson, like a bloody dawn, in the twisting corals when he returned from his evening studies - he would have been some underwater equivalent of a scholar warrior, his own brother’s confidant and blade, had slaughter not come to his city-kingdom.

The attackers, whoever they were, had set both city and survivors adrift. His brother refused to tell him who the culprits were. He refused to show Sasuke how to return home, driving him back to the open waters in the name of safety each time he came close. And he has come so close.

The part of you that knew intimately how even coming home is never coming home after something like the razing of a city, the killing of all the little things that made a family, understood even though your heart hurt for him. Sasuke had a sharp tongue, thorns, but like those plants with thorns, his barbs guarded something delicate and precious. He had a heart that loved so fiercely and truly that you yourself wanted to receive even a little of that emotion, as though it might spark back to life the cold ash of your own heart.

Sasuke’s brother would not let Sasuke use the skill he developed for tracking to take back that home that was first taken from him. So, he has done the one thing Itachi was not there to stop him from doing, which was to find an answer to the other half of the equation. What had attacked the drifting City of Leaves.

That was where the wounds came from.

The city of Sasuke’s birth followed new currents now, settled into a new and still unpredictable course. Forbidden from it and not knowing who still lived within, Sasuke hunted alone.

He tried to hide it with pride, but you saw that hollowness in him. Even though you understood his brother’s desire to preserve Sasuke’s childhood recollections, to keep him away from the dangers of what you guessed was the ongoing conflict within that hidden city-kingdom, it seemed cruel to condemn him to years of not knowing, of trying to deny him vengeance.

And so he was here.

Victorious, which made you somehow proud of him, but also hurt, which made you hurt for him in a way that was unfamiliar. Sasuke had defeated a mer that could cause water to boil, enabling him to do things like create mud that burned, as well as acid, and made interacting with him a deadly endeavor. It was a testament to his skill that he had survived as far as he had already.

It was not Sasuke’s absent brother’s fault that he could not be in two places at once. So perhaps…

The answer came to you with sudden clarity, over Sasuke’s drifting silence. His gaze had wandered away from you, and now he looked down at the ripples of water as the tiny waves in the hidden cove broke themselves upon him.

“Be with me.”

He looked up at you, sharp and quick and a certain shiver went through him that was utterly inhuman.

A slightly abashed heat rushed through your body at your own sudden boldness. You couldn’t take it back though. You had never been more certain of anything in your life.

Sasuke answered with a sardonic smile. It made you wonder who – if – there were others who had offered themselves as companions. He had a beautiful face by human standards. You didn’t know if it was the same among the mer, but you imagined that his skill and the sheer strength of his will would be valued anywhere. He smiled with sharp teeth and when it felt as though some silent laughter at your expense was finished, he had found the words to cut through whatever small fantasy you had been concocting.

“Will you offer me a life on land where each step is like knives? Where I will never meet one of my own kind again?”

You winced back because you had seen these old stories too. They were not what you thought of in that moment, but they were also not not what you thought of. And the way he said it, you knew if he truly believed there was nothing left, he would leave behind the sea no question and walk on knives the rest of his life to be with you. But you would never want him in real pain. It was why you went towards instead of away from him when you first laid eyes on him.

And you would never ask him to trade one loneliness for another.

“Be as you are-” your voice was shaking “-with me.”

It was as though every star you had followed on those moonless nights as a child were aligning, making out a path for you to follow. They led here.

“Why?” Sasuke asked, demanded. His voice was rough. You had surprised him.

Here you knew to tread carefully, but you were dizzy too with the feeling of finding a way out of a place you had never realized that maybe you could leave.

“I told you what made me this way,” you said. Your voice was rough too. The telling had lodged against some old hurt deep in your spirit and that place which you had once thought a well healed scar seemed much closer to the surface than before he had demanded the explanation.

“I want to hear you say it,” Sasuke said. Your skin prickled in sympathetic fear, because no matter how angry he tried to sound, the truth of his emotion was what you heard.

“I don’t feel at home here anymore,” you admitted, terrified.

“You’ve never lived below the water,” Sasuke replied, harsh but in the sort of way that meant it was the only way he knew to keep his voice from breaking.

“You’ve never lived on land,” you countered. “And besides, we have both survived worse. I would find a way.” For you, you did not say.

He gazed at you, frustrated, unsatisfied, and you knew that you had not yet provided an answer.

You swallowed. The strip of linen was wound tight between your hands, striping your fingers with marks, but you hardly noticed. The truth would tear your heart wide open. But maybe that was what was needed. Wound for wound.

“These months I’ve spent with you… when I’m with you, I don’t feel alone.” What was love after all, but knowing that somewhere in the world, you were not alone?

Sasuke’s throat bobbed, the gill slits between his ribs fluttered as he drew in water, faster, like a land dweller breathing hard.

“It would take magic beyond either of us now to transform.”

But he didn’t deny, did not refuse.

“I’ll find a way.” Your gaze burned into his with the force of your vow.

The faint furrow of Sasuke’s brow smoothed out.

“You can try. I’d help but–” he gestured down at himself, at the raw, spidering wound starring from the center of his chest and bursting again at points across his back.

You shook your head. “Don’t go anywhere,” you entreated. “Not yet.”

He nodded easily. He was well on his way to healing but still not as strong as he had been before battling the gold-tailed heat-creating mer.

“What would you do?” you asked after a moment, habitually inquisitive. There were questions a princeps could ask that a queen could not, but you were also just a tiny bit nosy about things you were curious about.

Sasuke smirked a bit, one corner of his mouth turning up. “We go find a witch.” He put a sound behind the word “witch”, the language of his people, and it sent a warning prickle up your spine.

“Oh,” you agreed quietly. “Don’t do that.”

Sasuke snorted in a pale acknowledgement of the humor remaining in the situation and then went quiet.

It took you five feverish weeks. Five weeks of pouring over manuscripts deeper and deeper in the palace archives, of searching for the faintest scrap of a hint of the kind of magic that would let one of your kind stay underwater for a change you knew would be maybe once in a lifetime. A less focussed part of your mind reworked through what you read to see if any of it could bring Sasuke on land with you, without pain, and not forever, but long enough to give him an unexpected advantage over his still numerous and yet unknown enemies. The second thing did not yield anything that you could use.

Not on land at least. There were holes once you dug deep enough, crawled far enough through the records, where maybe this old magic existed somewhere else and a chance at love did not come with so steep a price.

You had five weeks to realize what you would be giving up. Nothing felt like home, but someone did, and you would be leaving her.

The day you finally found the door to your answer, you crawled into Mei’s bed once nightfall came. You had not done this since you were very small, since before the palace walls were stained with ash and blood. Ash and blood – two of the oldest conduits for great magic.

She hummed, stroked a hand down your back. You could feel her palm through the silk of your pajamas.

“You’ve been busy lately.” She was imitating a song your parents used to use to get the two of you to rest, even when so excited you were fairly swimming through your bedding like a pair of fingerlings.

It was only now, after spending so much time with Sasuke, so much time trying to find every fact you could about something that was supposed to be purely mythical, that you suspected it was the same song, almost exactly. That was another of the gifts a remnant of blood-from-the-sea gave its children.

“There is much of the world to know,” you said.

“Yes,” Mei replied, “There is. Our kingdom is such a small part of it.” She said this thoughtfully, as though recalling all the months and years of struggle to get to this place, to a semblance of peace. “– of the earth and the sea.”

Practice and familiarity kept you from stiffening with suspicion and surprise. Mei’s fingers similarly did not pause in their gentle pass up and down your spine.

She must know. She was the queen and she made it her job to know everything so the betrayal that stole your family would never happen again. It would make things easier. Loving your sister did not always make it easy to tell her what was in the halls of your heart.

“What would you do,” you asked her without change in inflection, “to give me a chance at happiness?”

After a pause, she said: “Anything, last blood of mine.” She pressed a kiss to your brow and then blew out the lights with a blink and flick of her fingers. “Almost anything.”

You went down to the lagoon the next day, at dawn. Sasuke was used to impatience, anticipation. He only looked at you curiously, did not ask if you had discovered the magic you would need. You turned a roll in your hands.

There were things that Sasuke had found he very much enjoyed from the world above. Fruits and vegetables were different, brighter. Bread, which he had never really had before. You brought them all often, trying to show him as many wonders from the surface as possible. He had been well enough to hunt on his own for some time now so it was all you brought unless he wanted something from deep waters, too far away to catch and return within a day.

“I think I found it.”

Five weeks has been long enough to realize that there were things you were going to miss about the land too. Besides Mei. You pinched a corner off the roll and let it melt - butter and yeast - on your tongue.

Sasuke stilled. Or the majority of his body did, the rest of him still drifted and moved like seaweed or the wide fans of coral. “You think?”

“It will be difficult.” Of course it would. This was asking much, and there was always a price for magic. “You’re right. We can’t do it.”

The fins of the left side of his tail dragged, listing deeper into the water before he righted them, showing his otherwise silent dismay. It was still fascinating that his body language – which should be alien and strange – has become easier to read, and so quickly.

“But my sister is the queen of this nation. She has enough magic.”

“Would she do it?” For you, for the both of you, would she change you from a creature of the land to the sea?

You didn’t know. She had said “almost anything”. Would she let you go down to the unknown, into the depths of the sea with only a companion and no promises to bring you home?

Sasuke had edged closer, letting the gentle waves push him to the rocky shore where you leaned down. Your fingers dangled in the water.

He called your name. His voice shook.

“Are you going to break your promise?”

It was at that moment that you realized how much your words had meant to Sasuke. You had been thinking of this as a gamble. Sasuke could get tired of you, he could leave you, he could decide that without any titles or family in the ocean, you were worthless to him. You had slowly made peace with all of this.

As his voice broke on the word break, your resolve became honed to a blade.

“No.” You reached for his face. Your hands cupped his cheeks. You pressed your forehead to his.

“Even my brother–” he choked, on the grief, on the anger, on the long years of being left alone of being told no, Sasuke. I need to do this alone.

Something small, lighter than a pebble but heavier than a drop of water rolled over your fingers and knuckles.

The realization that, yet again, he didn’t have to be alone for most of his life had broken something open inside of him at the threat of abandonment. Again. Sasuke clutched your wrists, not to pull away, but to keep you close. His claws faintly indented against your skin.

You nuzzled against him, closer than you had ever been. He smelled of salt and the sea, and something almost electric, like the air under a thunderstorm.

His tears slowed but did not stop.

You hadn’t found the entirety of the spell, but you knew how to hunt it down, to solve the puzzle of hints and documents until you had the whole picture. One piece of information from the multitudes you had consumed came to you:

The tears of a mer are pearls, used in the magic of transformation, from land to sea.

You cupped his cheek, and caught the fall of his sorrows. You understood what it was to have an elder sibling who could not love you more than her duty but who would try to give you everything regardless, and for it still not to be enough. You knew what it was to be profoundly lonely, to have lost everything and still have that place like a hole through your lungs.

“Wait for me,” you begged. “Wait here and when I have convinced her highness the queen, when I have convinced my sister, I will come to you. And if I cannot, I will go with you anyways and find a way out to sea. As a pirate or a humble sailor, I will find you. For your love I would drown.”

“I do not want you to drown,” Sasuke said, dark eyes fierce and wild and afraid, shimmering in mother of pearl colors with a thin film of tears, but did not otherwise deny you.

You swiped the last few pearls from the corners of his eyes and his cheeks, the water of his tears crystallized to salt and carbonate the moment they hit air. “Three days or five or seven,” you said, “no more, no less.”

He pressed his cheek into your palm. You cupped the pearls in your hands like water until you reached the base of the secret path to the lagoon. Then you folded them into a square of fabric and tucked them into a pouch at your hip.

You clambered up the walls of his sanctuary, elegant as a climbing vine, and were gone.

Mei was sitting upon her throne when you threw yourself at her feet. The stone and wood pattern of the floor was alternating warm and cool beneath your knees and palms. After all of your research, it finally occurred to you to wonder whether that was another subtle nod to the history of the relationship between the beings of the land and the water, between your family and others on the mainland and the clans beneath the waves.

The queen looked down from her seat for a few long, heartstopping moments. You kept your face turned to the floor.

“Go.” She made the soft command and everyone she gave it to sprang to obey. The room rustled with the sounds of their retreat.

“Approach.”

You rose and came closer, tilting your head up slowly, afraid to see her expression.

It was kind, which was as much as you could have hoped for.

You looked around briefly, moving only your eyes while your head was tipped to the floor. The only people left in the throne room besides the two of you were a single minister who seemed to be taking the minutes of the day.

“What is it you have to ask me?” she asked gently.

Suddenly, the enormity of your request stole the air from your lungs.

Your sister gave you several long moments that did not return your ability to form words appropriate to a petition from the court.

“Or –” her voice was harder, more of the queen in it, “– would you like to explain what you’ve been up to for the last six months.”

That was easier, and harder. It was likely the mer lived beyond humans, concealing themselves and their own internal conflicts with relative ease, but you worried about exposing them nonetheless.

Mei called your name with a near sigh, only concealed because this was an official meeting and her irritations with you didn’t need to go on record. “You have to start somewhere.”

“It’s not my right,” you finally got out, thinking of the whole unknown world you were ready to dive into.

“Then tell me what is.”

You struggled for words and then eventually said, “Has anyone in our family ever encountered something from the ocean? Something difficult to explain.”

Mei leaned back against the carved scenery of the throne. Birds and fish and the long-tailed lemurs from the mountains soared and wound and climbed their way through the wood.

After a pause she offered, “Did you find something near-human, perhaps, in the genealogies?”

A heavy weight fell from your chest, and a wonder took its place.

“You know?”

She did not shrug but the emotion was there as she said, “I am the queen. It is my job to know. Many of the newer family registries were burned during the coup. It was easier when we returned to access some very old ones, which had not been touched in some time.”

“So we did once mix blood with the sea,” you said, half to yourself.

Mei looked at you, and something heavy and sad entered her eyes. You met that gaze, heart in your throat. Then she shook herself, and that emotion passed.

“Ask your question,” she said once again.

“Would you let our line join blood to blood with the water again?”

Mei’s green eyes were fathomless as the sea.

Sasuke waited, three days and then five and then seven and on the first dawn hour of the seventh day, a slow entourage of elegantly dressed people made their way carefully down to the lagoon.

First came a tall woman in a blue gown and red herringboned hair with a look about her that said she had survived much. With her was a dark robed man with heavy beads around his neck, a woman carefully juggling a portfolio of papers, and another man with a broad, heavy sword in his hands. And amidst them all was you, dressed as simply as a sailor in a billowing cotton shirt and loose, tied breaches.

A wreath of silver kelp blades was woven in the red haired woman’s hair so Sasuke assumed she must be the queen you spoke of, your sister.

She knelt down by the water and arranged her skirts as carefully as any selkie. Over her legs, between the slits in the fabric, glimmered a network of silver armor.

“It has been a long time since one of our people returned to the sea,” she said. “And now you wish to take the most beloved of my few remaining companions away.”

Sasuke lifted his chin. “I take nothing, as the sea takes nothing.”

“No,” the queen murmured, “things are seldom so deliberate, but you are a living, thinking creature, the same as I.”

She held out a hand and drew you down beside her when you placed your hand in hers. She drew you forward until your fingertips touched the water and then let you go.

She beckoned forward the woman with her folio of papers and they were laid out, weighted with polished stones and the leftover parts of dead things from the water, their spines and smooth curved outlines as familiar to Sasuke as their names.

The queen drew her fingers across words which Sasuke was faintly surprised to recognize. The queen noticed because a queen must notice everything.

“Our kingdoms share blood,” she explained slowly, every word precisely dictated. The woman who had spread out the papers slid a brush across a blank sheet, marking the conversation.

“We share language and words and music, although they have grown different from one another over generations.

“I will give you the last golden piece of my heart,” she continued. “But each year you must return, and show to me all is well, with both of you.” Her clever green eyes darted between you and Sasuke. “That is the price of my magic.”

He nodded, once, tight and sharp, and the queen seemed to relax, settling back on the rocks as easy as if they were her own great chair up in the castle with its wing-shaped roofs.

The queen turned to you and called your name so softly, like waking a child from sleep. “This is the first such alliance in more than a century. It will be your responsibility to learn the ways of the water. You will return each year so you do not forget the ways of the land.”

“I understand,” you said.

The queen cupped your cheek and pressed her brow to yours.

She pricked her thumb, scarred from pricking, against one tooth and pressed a bloody thumbprint to the laid out papers with their tiny, perfect letters, and the one still glistening with fresh ink. Sasuke followed her mark, and you after, and then you pulled away from her and lifted the loose shirt over your head.

The loose pants fell in a dark puddle around your feet, and bare, you eased yourself into the water, hands holding the rocks while your feet turned little eddies that hummed against the sensitive scales of his tail.

The man in dark robes pulled an empty wooden bowl from his sleeve. The queen pulled a black lacquered container from hers. The lid came off with a subtle click and inside was barely an inch of shimmering white powder. With a start, Sasuke realized that these were what remained of the tears you had taken with you.

A pinch of the gleaming powder fell from the queen’s fine fingers. She dipped her head and caught her own tear, her own whisper of loneliness into the wooden bowl. She held it out for you and you pressed your thumb and forefinger together until one perfectly mixed drop of blood and salt water fell in the mixture.

The man in dark robes dipped a stick of something that looked like dark polished wood into the bowl and stirred three tines and passed the bowl back to the queen.

She dipped a finger inside and smeared your lips red and the drops fell between your lips like rubies.

Then she moved back on the rocks, eyes both excited and sad, like all those who knew true magic.

Sasuke looked at you, lips red with your own blood and the sheen of his fallen tears and whetted with a queen’s permission.

Between one breath and the next, your eyes went wide and silently, you fell beneath the waves like a spear thrown into the water.

Sasuke dove down immediately, but even with his eyes, you were lost to him in the dark. It should have been impossible. The sandy bottom of the lagoon, though deep and cool and still let in a little bit of light.

With the dawn, even the water shone like it was filling with blood.

You fell alone through streaks of red light, diluting slowly with gold. It was like drowning, like suffocating. The blood on your lips and the tears in your mouth put the savor of grief, the tang of loneliness, the suggestion of life that comes from leaving one place for another on your tongue.

Your ribs ached and your throat ached, like being strangled with a great hand. That hand squeezed and now your legs could only thrash together as one, no more kicking toward an imaginary surface.

The thrum of water - how vast the sea was, how easy to pour yourself into it and let it take you - but no! you must keep your own form, even caught in a fist - it pressed against you like a hundred holy mantras, like the prayers that rose on the day your sister the queen was crowned.

You fought against the weight, struggling against the instinct to hold all air in your lungs. It went quickly stale as your body shifted and twisted, becoming one with the water, the stab of bones realigning. Silvery bubbles escaped your mouth as you writhed, looking for Sasuke, looking for Mei, looking for the surface.

You were sinking slowly, drowning. But as the oxygen seeped from the little air left in your lungs, panic left with it. One could not fight the might of the sea.The salt taste of blood and tears lingered on your tongue. A rippling sensation passed over your skin. You could let it take you, to pull all of you through the endless tide and currents. There would be no leaving, no loneliness, no goodbyes. You would be with Sasuke always, as constant as the sea itself.

Sasuke. Mei.

It was their tears on your tongue. It was they who would have only the formless ocean left to whisper its fathomless stories in their ears.

There was no way to swim far and fast enough to taste air again, but if you did not try, their grief would be wasted.

You fought, trails of bubbles like tiny jellyfish trailing from your nose and the corner of your blood painted mouth. Your ribs ached, but you reached upward towards the slanting sunlight. If you were crying too, you would not know, for your cheeks were wet already, but you felt heat behind your eyes. You thrashed with legs held tight together, felt the catch of the ocean over your skin.

This was it, barely any change to the light and you were out of air but still you struggled. And still you lost as your mouth opened and the last of the bubbles pushing water out of your nose drifted further and faster in the direction you wanted to go, and you breathed in.

It burned like drowning. It is said that the ocean was alike to the blood of living things. It burned like you had swallowed flame, but you still thrashed, kicking your aching, unfamiliar bones together, toward the surface

The ocean tried to swallow you whole because it was a great thing and you were so very small and it had no care for your sorrows or anyone else's. But you did. You cared. You took another gulp of saltwater, pulling toward the surface. Maybe it was growing closer, maybe the water was growing less red.

You clawed and reached and swam, and at some point you realized that you were not drowning, that although your lungs were filled with the heaviness of water, your vision stayed clear to the edges, too clear for underwater, and your kicks were no longer kicks but the thrusts of a mighty tail, and you were indeed seeing the approaching refraction of the sun.

You breached with a leap, your momentum nearly carrying you up and out of the water until you managed to curve back downward in an arc. You sensed rather than saw his surprised backstroke, the way he was swimming near the bottom of the lagoon and surged up to meet you.

He stopped, perfect, with long lashes like a deer’s, dark eyes almost liquid themselves, skin milky as jade. You’d never noticed before the ever so faint patterning of scales, palest purple, that ran along his arms and ribs, even though you’d felt them. He flicked his tail in restless back and forth motion, holding in front of you, not touching.

The magnificent blue and violet of his fins was tucked close to his body, which you knew meant he was unsure.

You looked down at yourself. You had your own tail now, strongly muscled, stronger than human legs to cut through the water to the depths of the sea. It had spines and fins, fluttered like the voluminous silk of a dress, drifted with each adjustment and motion you made.

“I am with you,” you said to Sasuke, breathed, your words new and different, but shaped by the instinct of a creature of the sea.

You felt like you were drowning, still. The weight of water in your newly changed lungs reminded you that you were no longer above the water.

But oh. It slid into place as you looked into Sasuke’s eyes. There was a faint ring of black patterning in them that had been invisible to your fully human eyes. The dawn-red flash was more obvious now with every turn of his head. He swam around you slowly, taking in the fullness of your new form.

There were so many new senses it was almost blinding. You could feel the movement of water, the currents brushing against your skin and scales, the electric vibration of Sasuke circling around. Mei was a spot of warmth stronger than Sasuke somewhere above. Was that her magic? You did not know.

But Sasuke, he sang to you, his very presence hummed in your new bones. He felt tethered to you with the warmth of a sun warmed current. You knew instinctually that his inspection was nothing predatory, not curiosity exactly, but more like interest, more like … your instincts spoke to you of the slow movements of a courting display. Experimentally, you fanned the wide train of your tail, flexing muscles you hadn’t had minutes before, moving slowly so it rippled and showed off the tracery of vein-like patterns drawn by your scales. It pleased you that it was reminiscent of leaves, a reminder of the land you came from.

If this focus, this sense of belonging was half of what Sasuke had felt while you were only human, you understood even better the strength of emotion that had led him to shed tears.

Sasuke spiraled closer, the slow humming sounds in his throat translating into comprehensible description, concepts rather than words. Warm sand between skin and scales, the change from shallow to deep water, colored stones that guide in different sequences. It was both what he saw, and the feeling those things evoked in him – a comfort that never faded, the impression of moving from one place to somewhere very different, the bracelet you had given him. He wanted to go, to swim with you.

You wanted to go with him. You found yourself stirring your tail, clumsily and Sasuke’s affectionate consternation, almost a laugh, vibrating through the water. Something stopped you. There was something important. Another warm tether. You blinked. Mei. You had forgotten her so quickly. Or not forgotten, rather that she had drifted to another corner of your mind. Sasuke’s presence had been so strong and immediate, pulled your focus like a magnet.

The sound you made was unpracticed and in frustration you had to switch to gestures. Sasuke blinked and made a soothing sound almost like a very low echo that vibrated in your chest. He looked up to where a rippling image in red and blue sat by the water.

You breached the surface for the first time since the changes to your flesh. Air burned through your throat and nose, so light you felt like you might drift away. It was disorienting.

Mei’s eyes met yours, wide as though surprised. Maybe because the spell had worked so well, or because you had come back at all. She looked at you. You looked the same but so profoundly and obviously different.

Slowly, feeling the strength and speed in your limbs, you reached up and wiped away the tear that fell from her eye – clear and warm against your fingers.

“Go.” She whispered. That warm thread thrummed strong and malleable in your new senses.

You lifted yourself from the water to press your lips to her brow. She smelled like anemone flowers, which is something you had never realized before. It would be something to remember her by. Even though they weren’t the same, each time you saw one underwater, you would think of her.

“I love you Mei-oneesan.”

You could sense that Sasuke had popped his head above water, eager for the goodbye, to show you the open sea. A low, slow vibration found you, tingled up the new spines lining your tail like an overt extension of your spine, a reminder that he was here - comfort, but also excitement.

“I’m not going away,” you said to Mei. You slipped back so that the fishlike half of your body was submerged, looked back at the mer looking with expectant dark eyes at you. “I’m just going to love him.”

Mei’s hand found your cheek. Her fingers traced across the faint flash of new scale so fine and soft it blended with your skin. “Love him well,” she said. Whatever that meant for his people, she did not know, but she knew you would do your best to figure it out, she had every confidence in your abilities to adapt, and more importantly, to build a new life.

“I will,” you whispered, suddenly elated.

You spared a glance back, but you would return. Sasuke gave an adorably impatient little jerk of his head. Ready?

A sharp sound came readily from your throat, although from a place lower than the human voice box. You knew it to be some kind of affirmative, but that was going to take some getting used to. Everything would be new. A thrilled shiver went through your body as Sasuke dived below the waves. You followed close behind through the tunnels carved from the protective rocky wall, stones red and then black and then green marking your way.

The ocean opened up ahead. The water you drew over your new gills was like a breath of fresh air despite its aching heaviness. Sasuke waited, watching as you took it all in with eyes that saw much better in the depths, but there was still a point in every direction where you could no longer discern more than color. You focussed back on him, eyes wide. You beat your tail a few times to catch up, stopping just within reach for your more decorative fins to brush against Sasuke’s.

He reached out with seeking fingers and you reached back. Then he opened his mouth as though to taste the water. You imitated him, which seemed to amuse him. There was a burst of something taken in like flavor, but more like scent over your palate. Sasuke turned towards whatever sign he had found pointing him to what he was looking for. You followed into the blue expanse.

#mermay 2023 #mermay fic #uchiha sasuke #uchiha sasuke x reader #sasuke x reader #mermaid!sasuke #little mermaid au #but it's in reverse #long post #i think i'll cross post this one to ao3 as well #link will be up eventually for anyone who prefers reading there

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seaofolives · 2 months ago

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🎭 #torokatober2024 day 27/31: horror 🎻

Quatre only realizes that Trowa was in his office when he hears the door slam shut.

It’s also only then that he realizes the story on the evening news: a forest fire in a farflung colony had erupted following a suspected altercation between two armed groups.

Quatre practically rips the door from its hinges when he runs out to see the man pacing the floor, clawing at his sleeves. “Trowa!”

Trowa whirls to him. He looks shocked to see him amid unwanted memories.

He crumples to his knees as soon as Quatre is there to pull him to his chest.

find the list of prompts here!

#torokatober2024 #g wing #3x4 #seaofolives original #gundam wing #might fix this up a bit before I share it on ao3 eventually #but but but #I think one reason why I'll always love post canon stuff is bc it's when a character starts to heal #and you know for someone like trowa to unlearn all his trauma responses #must be rough on him

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all-thestories-aretrue · 7 months ago

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Johnny finds Neil high out on the balcony and confronts him about his apparent uptake in kalif use, causing Neil to spiral further. Weighed down by visions and signs, he shuts down, leaving Johnny to care for him in a moment of vulnerability.

After three months, I'm finally finished. Apparently, I just needed to be trapped inside for three days straight with nothing else to do.

Anyway, if you click through, mind the tags.

#path of night podcast #my fic #when i tried to link it with it restricted to registered users thing it got all weird and kept populating new session and looked funky #idk anything about ao3 i barely know how to post to tumblr #posting the thing takes as long as writing the thing does #but path of night is now into double digits on ao3 my work here is done #now i can focus on the britta meta i want to write #which is going to take me an absolute age #i will probably eventually lock this to registered users too #theres too much ai scraping going on ao3 for my liking #but i'll give it a few days

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pikapeppa · 1 year ago

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Halsin/Tav: Dancing

A short little Act 1 snapshot between Halsin and my Tav, a half-drow bard named Brynn. 🥰 ~2020 words, SFW!

*************

Brynn was dancing, and it made for quite a beautiful sight.

The night was young still; the warm pinkish-orange glow of sunset still limned the edge of the horizon to the west. High above, the stars were just starting to shiver into sight, their silver shimmer echoed by the gentle winking of fireflies that graced the edges of the camp, lending the party an appropriately festive air.

Brynn and Karlach had been dancing without pause for a good quarter-candlemark now: a feat of stamina that was no doubt powered by the wine and spirits Brynn had been drinking with her companions and with Zevlor’s people both. Brynn and Karlach weren’t the only two dancing, not by far; Lakrissa, Cal and Lia had been whirling around with Brynn not too long ago, not to mention Mol’s little gang, and Bex and Danis had been waltzing earlier on as well — Danis with an endearing two-left-feetedness that Halsin could empathize with, to be perfectly frank. But Brynn and Karlach had been at it for a long time now with barely any pauses to eat or gulp some wine, and Halsin couldn’t help but admire their energy.

Karlach in particular was a surprise; for a woman of such stature and strength, she was surprisingly nimble on her toes. But ‘nimble’ didn’t even begin to describe the grace of Brynn’s whip-fast feet as she bounced and spun and quickstepped with her fiery tiefling friend, all while keeping safely out of range of Karlach’s superheated touch.

Perhaps Halsin oughtn’t be surprised by Brynn’s grace. She was a bard, after all, and an incredibly compelling one at that; music was in her blood, and it only made sense that she would be skilled in this kind of performance. Even so, the way she twirled and hopped and spun was uncannily nymphlike: her bare feet sprang across the grass almost as though the Oakfather himself had bade her fly across his verdant blades. As much as Halsin was savouring the freedom of being out among nature's bounty once more, in this moment, he was enjoying the sight of Brynn’s impish energy just as much.

It wasn’t until Alfira’s jaunty tune came to a trilling close that Brynn and Karlach finally took a break, amid cheering and applause from Zevlor’s group. A grinning Brynn dipped into a deep and ostentatious bow, then clanked a half-empty bottle of wine against Karlach’s stein before drinking deeply straight from the bottle, and Halsin smiled to himself. He didn’t begrudge her or the others their drinks tonight, but with the amount that Brynn had been drinking, he would certainly not envy her in the morning.

She lowered the bottle and offered it to Lakrissa with a flourish and a smile. Then, to his surprise, she began walking toward him.

He nodded his head in greeting. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I am. And what’s not to enjoy? Plenty of food, two dozen happy folk with a bottle of wine each, and it could not have been a more gorgeous night.” She tilted her head back and took a deep breath, and Halsin did the same. She was entirely correct on that point; it was a beautiful night, the kind where the day’s warmth left the scent of the nearby forest to linger pleasantly in the air: a smell so fresh and lush with life that the very air felt green as it entered his lungs.

She let out a happy sigh and smiled at him. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed fresh air more than I have since we left that goblin camp. Gods, and you were stuck there for how long? A week?”

“Nearly that.”

She clicked her tongue. “You must really be enjoying the smell of, well, not a small army of unwashed bodies with a predilection for using unbleached bones for armour.”

He nodded ruefully. “It is a boon indeed to be free of the scents of that camp. Among other things.”

“What other things?” She gave him a knowing look. “You’re thinking of the congealed blood puddles, right? I almost wonder if goblins see such things as a form of art.”

He made a little face. “It is no hardship to be away from the festering gore, it’s true. But that’s not all I was thinking of.”

“What were you thinking of, then?”

He hesitated before replying, because he knew the truth would sound odd. He was thinking not of the goblin camp, in fact, but of his responsibilities at the Grove. Perhaps he ought to feel guilty about leaving the Sacred Grove behind so quickly after his return, but in truth, the only guilt he felt was the fact that he had remained at the Grove for so long while the lands around Moonrise Towers suffered from the curse of Ketheric Thorm.

None of that was appropriate talk for a party, however, and he was loath to sour the mood by mentioning it. “Nothing that needs to be discussed right now,” he finally said. “You really should enjoy yourself tonight. Be merry, enjoy the company of your friends. We’ll have time to discuss all of this on the morrow.”

She tilted her head and gave him an appraising look.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is something the matter?”

“You should enjoy yourself too, Halsin,” she said seriously. “You fought those goblins right along with the rest of us.”

She meant well, or course, but her words only made him feel wistful. For her and her companions, this victory was a relatively simple one: a group of harmful cultists eliminated, and a step closer on the path to finding themselves a cure. But they didn’t know the depths of what they would soon be stepping into: the perversion of nature they would witness, and the sucking despair that would be upon them once they set foot in the shadowlands. How could he explain to her that he hadn’t earned the right to happiness, not while the curse still lingered and Thaniel was still trapped?

Again, those thoughts were not for Brynn’s ears to hear — not yet, at least, and not now. “I am enjoying myself,” he assured her. “Being in the cradle of the Oakfather’s bounty is joy enough for me.”

She arched a brow: a humorous but evocative gesture. “I hate to tell you this, but your idea of enjoying yourself looks an awful lot like brooding. There’s a lot of that going around tonight, actually,” she said, and she wrinkled her nose as she looked around the camp. “Lae’zel and Shadowheart are a resounding ‘no’ on the dancing, Gale’s face looks like a baby’s smacked bottom, and where in the realms has Wyll gotten off to?” She clicked her tongue, then turned back to Halsin. “Thank the gods for Alfira and the others, otherwise this would seem more like a wake than a party.”

She wasn’t wrong about that; Halsin did indeed seem to be in good company when it came to the brooding — or perhaps bad company, really. He squeezed Brynn’s shoulder in sympathy. “Don’t concern yourself about me. You deserve a night of uncomplicated rest before we set out on the journey west, and I encourage you to enjoy it. This may be the last truly restful night that we have for some time.”

“Right,” she said. But she was still eyeing him appraisingly.

He smiled at how shrewd she looked. “If you continue to study me this way, I may start to wonder if there’s something wrong with my face.”

Her narrow-eyed expression lit into a smile. “Gods, banish the thought. Nothing could be farther from the truth.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I was just thinking that you should dance with me.”

He couldn't help himself; he actually laughed. “Now that is a thought you ought to banish right away.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What do you mean? Why?”

He gestured vaguely toward the west. “We survived a rather hairy battle at that goblin camp. And now you wish to risk being maimed by dancing with me?”

She laughed: a lively and lilting sound. “Is this your way of telling me you’re a bad dancer?”

“Yes, unfortunately. You would be at less risk of harm in young Karlach’s flaming arms than in mine.”

She gave him a quick coquettish once-over. “Don’t go talking about being in your arms, now. You’ll give a girl ideas.”

He chuckled. He had quickly learned that Brynn’s flirtatiousness was as much a part of her nature as music and song, and he really didn’t mind. It had been a very long time since anyone had seen him in a capacity other than an elder and a teacher, and Brynn’s interest in him was refreshing — refreshing but a little melancholy-inducing, too, to be frank. It made him remember simpler times: times of balance and bounty, times when he felt deserving of the kinds of pleasures that her flirtation implied. Not that Brynn was serious in her flirting, necessarily; that was something Halsin wasn’t quite sure of yet, since she was equally charming with everyone, from what he had seen.

In any case, whether she was serious or not, she was a beautiful woman, and one who would easily have tempted his appetites in his younger days. But now… Now, he simply couldn’t accept such pleasures, not now. His heart and soul weren’t in the right place for it, not while they were bound along with Thaniel in that accursed place.

Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Come on, Halsin, just join me for one dance. I know you want to.”

“Do you?” he said, in genuine amusement. “How is that something you know?”

“Come on, now, I saw you watching us,” she said sweetly. “In my opinion, there are only two reasons that a person watches others dancing so attentively: either you want to bed the dancers, or you want to join them.”

He chuckled. “That’s a unique perspective. Is that what your bard training has taught you?”

“Precisely,” she said cheerfully. “Now, I respect that you’re not interested in the former tonight, and I’ll beg that you forgive me for continuing to hit on you like a bugbear attempting to knock down a door. But the latter is up for grabs. All you have to do is say yes.”

Say yes. Ah, but she made it sound so simple: to simply say yes, and to forget his troubles in a night of happiness and pleasure. But he couldn’t lay his troubles aside so easily, no matter how much he might wish to. He’d been carrying these responsibilities for so long now that it felt wrong to even imagine setting them aside.

“I truly regret that I must decline,” he said gently. “I assure you that my refusal is no slur on you, but out of concern for your safety. You are incredibly fleet of foot, and it would be criminal of me to take that away from you with the not-inconsiderable size of my own feet.”

She sighed dramatically. “All right, I give up for now. I’ll drown my woes in another bottle of wine. But mark my words, Halsin, I’ll have you saying yes to a dance eventually, I swear it. I’ll swear it on your Oakfather, even!”

“A very serious oath,” he replied, with a playful gravity. “Time will tell whether you fulfill it.”

“Time will tell indeed,” she said. She tipped him a roguish wink, then ran back to the others. “Come on, Karlach, let’s get back to it!”

“Fuck yes!” Karlach cried. And then the two of them were at it again, leaping and spinning and quick-stepping with a wild flair that was impossible not to watch.

He smiled. Her bare feet really were flying across the grass: the finest and loveliest proof that nature had made her for precisely this. A thing of beauty, indeed, he thought contentedly. And for a pleasant time, it wasn’t the star-dappled sky or the forest’s dark-leaved depths that drew Halsin’s attention, but Brynn’s lithe and graceful body moving in time with the world around her.

#halsin #bg3 halsin #halsin/tav #halsin x tav #tav/halsin #tav x halsin #halsin romance #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #bg3 spoilers #pikapeppa writes #i'll post on AO3 eventually but RESEARCH MUST BE DONE FIRST 😂

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