#im like jumping around flapping my arms in delight

[tojisun]

MAK MY LOVE YOUVE REDUCED ME TO A BLUSHING MESS RN 😭 i would literally need to be mopped off the floor because thank you so much omg

writing for quaritch was fun as much as it was tough and im so glad that i was able to get him right 😭 he just makes me so crazy like i just wanna reach into my heart and plop the simping mess that it’s become onto my laptop and make it write HHSHH

hes jealous but hes dedicated to his mission because hes a fucking menace but also hes just a man with needs :((( i wanna bite him

and im so glad that u luv the plot!! no bc using paz’s character as a theme for missed chances and miscommunication is so hhhhhhh delish <333 (my delusions are gonna curb stomp me one day)

thank you again mak!! big kisses for u 🥹🫶🏼

our shallow graves — 02

recom miles quaritch x recom fem reader

!! smut (between fwb outside of main pair) - minors dni; heat (as theme); mean quaritch; power imbalance; reference to (made up) past; worldbuilding; fast slow-burn; switching povs; weapons; reader adopts a nickname (callsign) which gets used // 5.1k words

: luvv writing from a chara’s pov n not just the reader’s <33; my bff wanted a love triangle but noo there would never be, i swear; replaying lady gaga and thenbhd as i write this; i hope u guys would luv this!!

↦ hydra - recom machine gun (not the door gun in the samsons); y70 - bullpup rifle/skel bullpup

prev // m.list // next - tbp

camaraderie with the colonel seemed to deteriorate overnight. your only saving grace is that it seemed like no one understands why his slight recognition for your talents evaporated quickly, the team having been reduced to shooting you with concerned glances whenever quaritch continues to ice you out.

you wanted to believe that it didn’t bother you much, but the taste of failure sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. quaritch is your superior, someone you were willing to interact with at an arm’s length, but now, even that seems impossible. 

“give him time,” walker says as you two enter the gun range, modified with an open ceiling to allow your na’vi bodies to breathe without the need for the respirator. “he’s probably still pissed because recon was delayed but c’mon now, we need extra time to take on the hellhole pandora’s about to be.”

you hum, your mind far away, as you begin to line up in one of the shooting stalls. you feel bare without your hydra but walker insisted on practicing with the Y70. 

“for good time’s sake!” she said, laughing when you rolled your eyes at her, calling her out on the fact that she only preferred the rifle because it was what she was exceptional at. 

your tail swishes behind you slowly before stilling, suspended in the air – a perfect imitation of your focus. you purge your mind of all thoughts, steadying your breath as you gaze at the moving targets. thrill runs down your spine at the first fire, the bullet going through the head of the target in a clean, single shot right at its temple. it is almost too natural how you were able to fire off the other bullets, muscle memory kicking in as your years of experience rush back to you, engulfing you with a single focus.

clean shot upon clean shot; head, heart, lungs – every vital organ and artery that you were aiming at were hit. it is like nothing existed in that moment, not your new life or your repeating nightmares of your death or even quaritch. it is just you and that rifle, against the world.

it was the first real taste of freedom you ever had from the moment you woke up in pandora, fifteen years after the war. 

walker stalks towards you with a grin, her rifle slung on her shoulder, looking smug as she shows you her perfect tally. you grin at her, feeling your tail finally untense, swishing around in languid satisfaction. 

“look at you with the perfect shots,” she says, dramatically whistling as though she wasn’t a better marksman than you are. 

“i have a good teacher,” you reply, winking at her. she chuckles, shaking her head, and you wish she had her braids down just so you can see them bump against each other. 

“and you are welcome.” walker places a hand on her chest before bowing theatrically, making you erupt in hearty giggles. 

comfortable silence settles as you two walk back to your quarters, ears flicking at each sound that rumbles from the belly of the compound. 

the sensitivity of your heightened senses brings you back to the night the colonel caught you sneaking out of mansk’s room, pure anger shimmering within his beautiful golden eyes and poison coating his hissed-out words. you do not know what set him off – you do not want to believe that it simply had been because you and mansk fooled around, not when quaritch has done worse.

(in your brief encounter with the human colonel quaritch, you have seen them together only once. the babe was swaddled in thick blankets, leaving only tufts of sandy hair visible to curious eyes. 

you tried not to linger when you saw how the colonel walked around with the child in his arms, cradled gently, carefully, his usually-stern face melting into something kind. into something human.

the harbinger of destruction. a father.

you couldn’t wrap your head around the man. not even as you watched in silence, obscured from his line of sight, as he nuzzled his nose on the boy’s forehead, breathing him in.

pandora’s real first human, a boy blessed by eywa, and there he was, held in the hands of the man who would threaten her balance.)

“maria,” you call, slowing down your steps and turning to look at your friend.

walker hums, tilting her head to meet your gaze. “what’s up?”

“do you, uh, know what happened to the kid?” you didn’t need to specify who it is that you meant. 

she stops walking, her brows furrowing in hesitant confusion. you lick your lips, wondering if you might’ve overstepped, after all, walker may be your friend, but her loyalties will always be with the colonel. even back in hell’s gate, she always separated her friendship with you from her duty – it felt like she constantly lived two different lives. 

“it’s just that i can unwind with you,” she used to say, huffing when the clips she used to pin her bun got lost within the gelled strands of her hair. you would pull her to your bed, chuckling quietly, before taking over, gentle hands familiar with her hair like it was yours that you were grooming. 

“why do you ask?” walker responds, twisting so she can fully face you.

you shrug. “i don’t know,” you say, a half-truth. “the memories are coming back to me slowly and one of them is him.”

walker remains quiet, studying you with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, before a sigh creeps out of her lips. you feel your heart lighten up, your body uncoiling from the tension, and you shoot her a small smile, grateful for her trust. 

“i dunno, to be honest,” she says as you two begin walking again, your steps this time are more languid. you two don’t entertain the gawking humans who scurry out of the way as you and walker make your way back to your rooms, busy murmuring to each other.

“they probably sent him back to somewhere in terra where relatives could take care o’him.”

you grunt, nodding, choosing not to prod any more. 

just before the two of you can part ways to enter your respective rooms, lopez comes running down the hallway, hollering your names.

“les’ go! colonel’s back from the meeting, and word is that we get our mission today!”

“thank fuck for that!” walker whoops. she meets your eyes. “rico, come on!”

you try to ignore the sudden swoop of paranoia that settles in your stomach, choosing instead to follow as walker and lopez run to meet with the others. you had hoped that you would’ve been able to fix whatever it was that happened between you and the colonel before the mission, but it seems like you don’t have that privilege anymore.

it seems like with quaritch, you don’t get mercy. 

-------

just like what lopez said, the colonel returned with orders from the brass that you all would be sent out soon – the omatikaya stronghold changed upon the return of the humans, and now you are all tasked to draw jake sully out. you are all given a week to prepare for pandora’s beasts – you are aware that they meant the na’vi more than the actual animals roaming the lush jungle.

recon was cancelled, the new schedule no longer permitted such opportunity; the general had, instead, ordered your squad to move in and navigate the hard way. you tried not to shrink at the withering look that quaritch shot you as he mentioned that. mansk shifted close, as though to show that he stood with you even against the colonel’s seething glare, but it seemed like it was the wrong thing to do as quaritch only seemed to grow angrier. 

you tried your best not to react, but your tail dropped, coiling around your thigh in the face of the colonel’s disapproval. you are too ashamed to look at the others, not wanting to see their own disappointment or even their pity so you kept your eyes on quaritch, using his authority to hide from the attention that your squad was giving you.

the meeting reaches its end, the colonel ordering wainfleet and zdinarsik to take over. mansk hovers, falling into step with you as you both move to leave the room together when the colonel’s voice stops you.

“rico, you stay. mansk, y’r dismissed.”

mansk shoots you a quick glance before nodding at the colonel and leaving with the rest. wainfleet had taken the lead as they all marched out with zdinarsik covering their back, the taller recom nodding at you upon meeting your gaze before closing the door behind her.

there is silence in the war room as you stand still, waiting for quaritch to make the first move. you rack your mind for another fuck up that he can berate you with, but nothing comes up, leaving you grasping at nothing but the bubbling anxiousness gnawing at you. 

“i suggested to general ardmore that we bench you, rico.” he raises his hand at your visceral reaction – your jaw falling open as you flinch, protests about to slip from your lips, as a now-aborted step almost draws you close to him. “listen to me first, corporal.”

you blink at the realization that his voice doesn’t denote any malice, the rich baritone is painfully neutral, and you think, then, how hearing his indifference just stings a whole lot more. 

you remain silent, watching with bated breath as quaritch pulls a chair out and motions for you to sit down. your legs feel like lead as you fall into it with no grace, your body going taut with tension when the colonel takes the one just in front of you. 

the space between the two of you is decent – it is the normal distance – but you can’t help but feel the warmth emitting from his bigger figure, almost like your body is singing for him. you try to breathe through your mouth, afraid that you will get a whiff of his scent, reducing you into a puddle of uncertainty and need. 

you blink your glassy eyes up at him, trying to focus, to listen, but it is like all those times that quaritch pushed you away had made you hypersensitive about him. he is all you can focus on; past the need to prove to him of your worth, he is all that fills you up. the way he smells, the way his eyes study you, the way his voice rips through the static – you want all of it. 

heat builds up in the pit of your stomach.

fuck. 

“you doin’ ok there?” the colonel asks, his indifference melting as worry bleeds into his tone. 

“i, uhm,” you begin, your voice faltering. you try to reel in your mind, grinding your teeth to snap you from your trance. 

“yeah.” you clear your throat, breathing in shakily. “i mean, yes sir.”

quaritch grunts, his eyes still pinned on you. “this is exactly why i wanted to leave you behind.”

that brings you out of the haze, your attention snapping back into a singularity. “permission to ask why, sir?”

quaritch sighs. “the science pukes mentioned how y’r still lagging behind. kid, i’m gonna be honest with you – i can’t afford a weak link.”

his words feel like knives carving into you. you’ve always thrived in your capabilities – you wouldn’t have gone far if you weren’t good, if not one of the best, and yet, in his eyes, your single fumble has cost so much. 

“pandora is gonna eat you up and spit you out – well, it already did, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. and yet, general ardmore still insisted that we take you.” 

you watch as the colonel leans over, eating up the miniscule distance between yourselves to peer at you. “tell me, rico. just why are you so important to her?”

you wish you have the answer; you wish you have anything to give to him, to make sense of your own purpose, but nothing comes up. it is like you’re constantly floating around, untethered, and yet severely burdened at the same time. they tell you how the general favours you, and yet she has yet to tell you that herself, leaving you alone in navigating your position amongst the other recoms. 

the loneliness doesn’t stop eating at you.

“colonel, i really don’t know,” you finally utter, breaking eye contact to stare at the ground. 

quaritch clicks his tongue. “no, there’s gotta be somethin’ i’m missin’. i read your files, you know that?” he grins meanly when your eyes snapped back to him. “oh yeah, i did. and imagine my goddamn disappointment when it showed me nothin’ noteworthy.”

he stands up, his voice gaining strength, and you realize that you can now see his fury in its entirety.

“yeah, you’ve got a way with flying, but that skill’s practically useless unless we can get our own banshees. and even then, they ain’t machines – your skill’s obsolete. y’ve got a way with guns, sure, but so do the rest of my squad; it ain’t just lyle who’s got a great shot, after all. and yeah y’r hand-to-hand combat is good, but it ain’t the best.”

you feel tears pooling in the corner of your eyes as quaritch continues his admonishment. you feel like everything that you are is suspended in the air, carelessly peeled off and overturned until you are nothing but your skin and bones.

“y’know what i saw?” the colonel asks in a barely-contained snarl. 

you do not reply, but it doesn’t matter to him anyway. 

“i saw how y’r just a goddamn nobody because if you were any better, i would’ve taken you in before. so tell me rico, just what the hell are you doin’ here?”

you do not know what urged you to do it, but next thing you know you are standing mere inches before the colonel, breaching his personal space to poke at his chest. “i don’t need to prove myself to you,” you hiss. 

(it was a lie. after all, it was all you wanted to do. for him to acknowledge you. for him to – what do the na’vis call it? – see you.)

quaritch scoffs, pausing, before he lunges forward to grip your jaw, forcing your head to tilt up and making you look at him. you feel your breath leave your lungs, the blood rushing to your ears and deafening you. anything else seemed to stop, leaving you alone with your petering rage as you gaze up at him.

his breath tickles your lips and you gasp, soundless, feeling the desire exploding in your chest. you do not know what it is that he originally wanted to do because in the next heartbeat, just a slight stutter, all you feel is his lips meeting yours. 

quaritch devours your hiccuped squeak, his searing lips moving against your own, pulling out more of the little desperate sounds from your throat only for them to be swallowed hungrily by him. the kiss is hot, messy, but you can’t help but be obsessed with it.

his scent fills you up, settling deep in your chest and making you throb with want. you grip his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to touch more of him. but at the feeling of your hands, quaritch rips his lips from yours and scurries to back away from you.

you stand there, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, feeling your lips tingle from his kiss. you watch as his face crumples at the realization of what he’s done before it reverts back into faux stoicism, as though he isn’t affected by the kiss. as though he doesn’t feel the same burning desire that engulfed you whole.

“colonel-”

“no fraternizing with a squad member,” quaritch utters before he lifts his hand up to rub at his lips with the back of his palm.

“oh, so now we’re following the golden rule?” you mutter, the words bubbling out before you can stop them. 

you know that you crossed a line at the mention of what he’s done with socorro but you are too filled with a blazing storm of conflicting feelings, rendering you uninhibited as they clash in your chest and drain you of all your energy. you feel yourself shake at the intensity of your emotions – of your yearning – but the colonel continues to stand far away. far from your grasp.  

he’s made his decision. 

“get going, corporal. y’r dismissed.”

you run out of the room, not caring of the way the tears slip from the corners of your eyes to drench your cheeks, and pretending that you cannot smell the faint scent of the colonel sticking to you.

pretending that you do not feel something in you break. 

-------

looking for mansk was the easy part. not using him to drown out the weight of your conflicting feelings, that was the hard part. 

mansk has taken you in his arms, cradling you close as you wept on the crook of his neck. he was silent, like he already knew what it is that aches you, and you wonder how could he. you barely knew why you feel betrayal sit in the pit of your stomach; why you feel so drawn to quaritch – attuned to the sound of his voice and the staccato of his footsteps.

why do you ache for his touch?

if it is heat, if it is all biology, mansk does a good enough job in extinguishing the flames of painful need curling within your blood. and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from seeking out bigger and rougher hands and a gruffer voice, the southern accent looping around the vowels, making your stomach clench with desire.

quaritch is all that you’ve ever wanted ever since he first called your name, unknown familiarity sinking in your chest like a rock chucked to the ocean – the paradox is a metaphor of your feelings. funny, isn’t it?

“i don’t understand,” you murmur, sniffling as you pull your head from mansk’s shoulder. you wipe at your eyes, groaning at the futility of it when fresh tears fall and drench your cheeks anyway. 

mansk remains silent, his hands have fallen from your back to grasp at your wrists, the warmth from his palms not doing anything to soothe your nerves.

“it’s like he needed that little blip in my performance to finally rationalize the hate he feels for me, and then it just didn’t stop,” you continue, breathing in shakily. “and i wish i could just ignore him but, fuck, i can’t.”

you shake yourself from mansk’s touch, standing up from his bed to pace around his room. the pads of your feet are quiet on the metal floors and you ignore the shot of coolness that comes with every step. your braids, chopped just below your jaw, frame your face with stray strands sticking on your damp cheeks despite your frantic moving. 

“he’s there and he’s nowhere at the same time, devin. like, i try my best to avoid him but he’s always a consistent presence in my life. it doesn’t fucking matter if he’s ignoring me, not when he’s always in the same room, within the same space.” your voice raises, scratching your throat as anger and hurt bubble up, ever-so expanding until you are grasping at the remnants of your rationality. 

“and i want him. i feel like dying when i’m not with him and he-” you pause, a choked sob getting punched out from your lungs. mansk startles, clambering from his bed to hover by your side, not really closing in but standing just near enough that you can see the downturn of his ears, his worry etched on his face. 

“he doesn’t feel the same way, dev.” 

you crumble, feeling lightheaded from the explosion of anguish burning at your seams, and mansk finally embraces you. 

the first kiss was hesitant, chapped lips meeting bruised ones, and he doesn’t move until you are pawing at his shirt and tugging him close. mansk falls into his role easily, nipping your bottom lip as a distraction which you take eagerly.

quaritch’s snarl from many nights ago creep into your mind, his southern accent tearing through the sudden buzz of mansk’s touch, taunting you – “you reek.” 

you think just how upsetting it is to feel your desire expand into fanned flames at the memory of quaritch. at the memory of his anger – the only thing of him that he’s given to you freely. 

mansk rips his lips from yours, panting, his eyes dilated with desire. “rico, y’smell so good.”

your shirt is torn from your body, your cargos thrown over broad shoulders – not broad enough, not tall enough, not angry enough. 

you try to forget, to stop thinking, as mansk fucks you; thin fingers sliding along your slit and sinking into your heat, curling to prepare you for his length. not even the way three of his fingers overwhelm you with the feeling of being stuffed can silence the thoughts – ‘not thick enough, not long enough, not rough enough’ – and you bury your face on his pillow, trying to smother the tears. 

the slide of his cock should’ve rendered your mind into white static, but it seems like your veins are thrumming with a visceral need, one that you know only quaritch can quell. 

“choke me,” you mumble, blinking wetly up at mansk, your chest heaving at the muted desire filling you up. 

“what?” mansk asks, breathless, his body shaking from the crashing heat. 

“choke me,” you repeat, this time clearer. 

mansk hesitates, his wide eyes growing bigger, his scent curling into something darker. the wrap of his hand around your throat is sure, gentle despite your plea, before he squeezes. the pressure grounds you, feeding into your desperation. into your delusions. 

(you think of quaritch. it seems like you never stop thinking about him. 

he will take you the same way lava takes everything – devouring beyond flesh, nipping right into the core until all it leaves is the flames of a thousand suns. his desires will crush you, filling up the spaces between your blood vessels and your synapses with nothing but him. 

and you will love it. you will let yourself be scorched because ever since you have met him, all you knew was fire and how they lick up into your chest, swallowing your heart, almost like they are branding his name directly in you. 

like you have belonged to him even before.)

mansk wipes you with a towel, murmuring soft apologies when your body jolts in oversensitivity at the rough drag of the cloth. he passes you his shirt and then pulls you underneath the sheets, tucking you in for the night. 

“thank you,” you say, weakly smiling at him.

mansk returns the smile, brushing your braids away from your face. “just like old times.”

your eyebrows furrow, confusion triumphing over exhaustion. “old times?”

“yeah,” he grunts, falling beside you. “you’ve always liked the colonel and granted we didn’t fuck then, but you always vented to me so, y’know?”

mansk’s words wash over you like a crashing tide, pulling you from the shore and submerging you into the depths of the unknown. you grasp at your memories, flitting from one to the other, trying to find pieces of your affection for the colonel only to fall short. surely, you would’ve remembered. surely, the feelings, with how intense they are, did not just go away; that you did not just lose a piece of yourself.

you think of the haunting, how the colonel and socorro appear in your memories in fragments, and feel a twinge in your heart. was it not indifference? that all this time when you remembered her, when you used her to learn more about quaritch, it was because you liked him too? 

were you always a fool like this? searching for bits of quaritch in the hands of another, trying to claim the stray parts like they could be yours to begin with. 

“rico?” mansk’s voice breaks through your reverie. 

“i… i don’t remember.”

he turns to you in surprise. “what do you mean you don’t remember?”

“just that,” you say, your voice faint. “i don’t- i can’t remember.”

-------

the moment miles saw his reflection – blue and distinctly not human – he knew there was little of himself left in the hellhole that pandora had become. autonomy and freedom no longer meant much, not when he’s become a weapon. 

he’s died once, they said. had he still been the commanding officer in the compound, he’d have the shrink do drills at the stupidity of pointing out his untimely and obvious demise. 

no fucking shit he died. miles would’ve remembered turning into a goddamn na’vi if he didn’t. 

but, at the end of the day, his anger didn’t matter. like a freak show, he’s back – not really as the same man, but similar enough that the old colonel’s ghost thrums with hymns of vengeance, carrying over to miles’ own person. because miles may not remember his death, but he remembers jake sully’s betrayal.

the boy had chosen his people and miles had chosen his, it is that simple. 

the mission was straight-forward, but miles isn’t deluded enough to assume that it would be just as easy. he’s failed once already, after all. perhaps being a na’vi could switch the tides; perhaps being one wouldn’t matter – whatever it may be, miles is ready to carry the burden of killing jake sully.

with a single focus, miles lets the unfamiliarity of his new body roll off his skin like dew before forcing himself to learn and to adapt. painstakingly, he even tried to salvage the pieces of augustine’s research, hoping to find any scraps of information regarding the na’vi in her ramblings, but the compound has scrubbed themselves off the traitor’s books. don’t mind the fact that augustine’s the best goddamn na’vi expert, apparently, they rather bitch around under the pretence of unnecessary patriotism, instead of taking advantage of her research. 

when he asked who he should talk to regarding their physio, he was told that augustine was replaced by cooper. unsurprisingly, cooper was unable to fill in the shoes that augustine left, but miles preferred him anyway. the man has lesser empathy, lesser curiosity about the wonders of pandora. 

‘that’s good,” miles thought upon meeting cooper. ‘checkups will be clinical. none of that bitchin’ about morals.’

which was why it should’ve been easy transitioning into his recombinant body. it should’ve been.

then, you came along.

sweet, little, pretty thing that you are. you don’t even know what you do to him, walking around looking like you’re pulled straight  from miles’ spank bank material. you look darling with your short braids, pulled back with little clips like those that he remembers walker using, as your smooth voice ripples against the heavy tension building in miles’ chest.

there’s always this sweet scent that follows you, and it reminds miles of something that he couldn’t really pin down. it’s faint, teasing his senses with the little bursts until he began to be addicted to it. to be addicted to you.

he had been content with only getting a whiff from every time the two of you crossed paths, your chin ducking down in respect, saluting so beautifully that it had miles pretending that he didn’t have the itch to pat your head in approval. 

(you looked like the type to adore praises; the type to want to hear how you’re being such a good girl. all for him.)

he didn’t want to pursue more, remembering what happened when he last made that mistake, but it just felt so impossible to dismiss his interest in you as something that is only fleeting; something that is only physical, bound by the biological nature of his new body. 

maybe if he just pushed back harder against the general, then maybe he could be rid of you. maybe there would be nothing thrumming underneath his skin – he refuses to call it desire, afraid that by doing so, he would chain himself to the ache that he feels – and maybe you would no longer be his growing problem.

then: a spike in the air churned the insides of miles’ head, bolting his legs onto the floor. there was a sort of static, a rumbling charge that pierced past metal walls and choked miles into madness. 

he didn’t even realize what it was until he picked up the sound of your voice, pleasure curling against your words as you cried out a name. miles felt lightheaded, warmth crept up from his fingertips to the base of his neck.

(a shackle, one that spelt out your name. 

again, do you know what you do to him? what you reduce him to?)

the scent of your euphoria sent him into a feverish state, molten lava replacing blood as he burned. his breaths came out in ragged rasps, and miles gulped down the air as though he could taste you from it. as though that would’ve been enough.

miles knew what danger looked like, he knew what it smelt like, but he never expected that it would take your shape, testing him past his capabilities. so he lied, spitting in anger and lashing out as he held your hand, ignoring the way his skin tingled when it met yours, and he watched as your eyes glimmered with hurt.

fine. that’s fine. miles repeated this mantra until he clambered into his room, almost tripping over his boots, and made his way to his bed. 

there was a heavy pressure in miles’ ears as he tore off his belt, his teeth snapped together as he pulled his length out and fucked into his fist, breathing into the other one to chase the fading scent that you left. 

he lost himself in his thoughts, imagining that it had been him who reduced you into a moaning mess. that it had been him who you came to for your heat; that it had been him who made you cry, your whimpers slipping past shut doors until everyone could hear your sweet cries.

miles has always been possessive, he doesn’t need the soul drive to know that.

his orgasm ripped through him in muted pleasure, not enough to stoke the heat rumbling deep in his belly.

“fuck!” he growled, frustration bubbling up into his mouth as he screwed his eyes shut, trying to forget the way you look; the way you walk, the way you shoot your hydra or the way you maneuver a bird as though you and the machine are one. 

but it was futile. he’s ruined. 

you’ve ruined him.

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tagging (pls lmk if you wanna be added or removed!) - @hinataashoyos @babyduk213 @ilovebluedilfss

[hanadolphieron]

lunar artist!yeojin; chapter two~

warnings; fish, fish bites?

genre; sci-fi, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff

pairing; im yeojin x gender neutral!reader

word count; 1.8k

summary; your small crater town on the moon was rarely visited. one day, artist!yeojin travels all the way from mars to paint the serene, wistful scenery of your planet.

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

day one-

you return to the same place every day, the place you met yeojin, the first spark in your life for as long as you can remember. she isn’t there.

day two-

again, you go back. she isn’t there.

day three-

she isn’t there.

day four-

you still go back. she isn’t there.

day five-

you don’t go back.

day six-

you stay home.

day seven-

you go back. she’s there.

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

yeojin looks up and says nothing. 

“you’re back!” you exclaim rushing towards her. you go in for a hug, but balk at the last second, wondering if yeojin would appreciate physical contact or would prefer to remain at a distance.

however, yeojin pulled you in, a big smile on her face, clearly overjoyed to see you.

“i missed you. where have you been?” you inquire, pulling back and looking into her eyes. somehow, you seem to have gotten closer over the week you’ve been apart.

“can’t say.” she tells you.

you both stand there, unsure of what to do. or, at least, you’re unsure, yeojin seems perfectly content standing there and staring up at you. you’re bending your legs a little so she doesn’t have to crane her neck, but we’re just going to leave that unmentioned for the rest of this chapter for yeojin’s sake.

“where do you live?” yeojin asks shamelessly. you lightly sigh, glad she spared you the task of saying something first.

“just over the hill. my house overlooks a little moon pond, there’s fish there too!” you ramble, excited. you’ve never talked about your house to anyone before. communicating has become a chore lately, and you haven’t bothered reaching out to anyone else except your plant, named rock, so talking to yeojin is a practically entertainment, “the water even freezes during the night! we could go ice-skating together!”

yeojin seems unaffected by your exuberance. in fact, she looks delighted by your plans. (even though she pretty much initiated it, with her not-so-subtle self invitation to your house)

“come with me,” you say, turning around, reminiscent of the way yeojin did just a week ago.

yeojin follows, a bounce in her step. her legs are moving insanely fast to keep up with you and you can barely see them. 

breaking the ice with a sledgehammer, you ask yeojin, “why did you leave so early last time?”

“i- like i told you, i had to be back by 17:33,” she stutters out.

“how did you do that,” you make weird floaty hand gestures at the air around you, “thing?”

“it’s just a habit i picked up when ships became scarce and i couldn’t fly,” yeojin says shortly. maybe you shouldn’t have asked. however, you decide to go against your gut and inquire more.

“isn’t that something plutonians do?” you seem to have hit a nerve with this question. yeojin opens her mouth, then purses her lips. her steps slowed a little, and she stumbled a bit.

you save her from your own question by asking another one, “do you like salt on your pretzels?”

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

you make it to your house, finally, the tension between the two of you was tight and you needed a distraction. 

walking over the hill, you stop, letting yeojin take in the view.

decking out the area around your house had become a full-time job once you realized there was nothing to do on this planet, and you had quite the plethora of beautiful, thoughtful places nestled around the lake’s edges.

a pier stretches out into the glistening water. fluorescent fish glide around its support. to the right of the pond, there is a garden, filled with all sorts of purple plants, creating a splash of dull color in your gray world. on the cliff behind the lake lies a mural, painted across the rocky edges in vibrant hues.

on the right sits your home. it’s wood, a native material of your home planet, that you brought with you as a keepsake to remind you of your roots. considerably small, your cottage only takes up a tiny sliver of the space surrounding the lake. it’s in the corner, a cute hidey-hole for you to stay safe and secure in.

yeojin looks out at the expanse of your property, her face expressionless. suddenly, as if she remembers that she has emotions, awe and adoration spread across her face. she turns to you, “it’s beautiful,” she says, and looks back at the view again.

“thanks,” you whisper back. “well, let’s get to it i guess, gotta get those pretzels pretzeled!” you say, slightly awkwardly, but that’s normal for you.

as you move past the pier, yeojin looks out into the water and sees the fish up-close. apparently having an epiphany over how much she wants to touch a fish, she drags you by the sleeve closer to the water’s edge.

you stumble over there, knowing exactly how this is going to go down.

yeojin rips off her left shoe and stabs her foot into the water. the fish, luckily, aren’t scared by her aggression and continue blandly swimming. (just keep swimming swimming swimming) 

yeojin isn’t satisfied with this, and reaches into the water.

“wait, yeojin, no!” you clamber after her. those fish are hostile!

it’s too late. yeojin tries to touch the fish, and, not used to abrasive humans attempting to make physical contact, the animal flips and flaps around, teeth out, and bites yeojin.

“ow!” yeojin yells, in a loud, raspy voice.

however, her poor finger did not bleed, and she was fine after a few seconds of glaring at the fish, who was oblivious to her anger.

you laugh, and head on towards your house. yeojin follows with narrowed eyes.

opening the door, you are met with a subtle silver glow from the lights.

“is everything on this planet gray and shiny?” yeojin exclaims upon entering.

“no! did you not the see the exquisite purple colored vegetables i tend to over yonder?”

yeojin says nothing. you won. hah!

going to the kitchen and leaving yeojin to fend for herself, you drag up two pretzels from the depths of your pantry.

yeojin survives the trek of 10 feet from the doorway into the house to the doorway to the kitchen and stands in the threshold, hands on her hips. 

you look at her, your eyes inspecting her dominating stance.

“just trying to scare you. guess it worked.”

huffing, you slap the doughy carbohydrates onto the counter and throw them in the oven.

“that was almost as aggressive as me,” yeojin comments, sipping from a drink. you think its yours. than again, who else would it belong to.

yeojin doesn’t seem to mind that she is inhaling your germs and slurps loudly.

you shake your head and look at the oven, trying to persuade the minutes to go by faster with the force of your mind. they don’t comply.

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

after talking for a while and becoming more familiar with each other, the oven screeched, causing you to jump from the noise and yeojin to cackle.

you stalk over to the oven, shoving on some super-mitts as to not burn yourself. you pull the pretzels out of the kitchen appliance and place them onto plates. 

sitting down across from yeojin and snatching another glass that had been laying on the counter, (there was a total of six sitting there, they started to pile up once you realized no one was going to tell you to pick them up and you had complete freedom to be lazy) you began to snack.

yeojin wasn’t the most delicate eater.

with cacophonous munching and smacking, she consumed her carbohydrates. 

you looked on, not exactly in disgust, but definitely in curiosity as you had never seen such an warrior-like eater.

yeojin notices you observing, but pretends she doesn’t, and chews louder.

in the middle of your small meal, yeojin interrupts the precious silence and asks, “can you play music?”

“you have music on mars?” you respond, surprised that she asked for such an elegant item.

“that didn’t answer my question.”

sighing deeply, you move to turn on the radio.

“yes, we do have music. some. besides, i paint. it’s hard to feel passionate about creating without indulging in other art forms.”

“oh.”

both of you are quiet for a while, listening to the sound of the music. 

suddenly, you decide to forego your normal daydreaming and imagining music-related tendencies and jump up. starting to fling your limbs out in all directions, you begin to dance.

yeojin falls out of her chair laughing at your attempt.

you, delighted by her clumsiness and happiness, topple over too, laughing as well. the two of you are on the ground for a few moments, and then you drag yeojin up with weak arms, pulling her into the middle of the room. 

falling to each other’s floppy embrace, you jump in circles, not exactly in tune with the music but that doesn’t matter anymore.

what matters is yeojin’s cute laugh that contradicts her tough persona, the way her cheeks get all chubby with the force of her smiling, the stars sparkling in her eyes, her hair flying around her face, sticking to her forehead now sweating from the exertion of laughing so hard you are about to perish, and the way she’s looking at you right now. 

the way she’s looking at you right now. 

it’s not the normal, happy, platonic look. 

not the same way your childhood friends looked at you when you made a great joke, or did something sweet for them. 

there’s something more there.

something that reminds you of waves crashing over the enormous beaches of you home planet, on the nights that don’t feel real, the ones that make you experience emotions that you can’t fully comprehend because they’re so beautiful, and so, so painful at the same time.

something that reminds you of roses, fluttering out into petals, blooming despite the thorns attached to their sides.

something that reminds you of illuminated evenings, talking and laughing, with an inexplicable tension in the air, one that makes you feel all warm and nervous inside.

something that reminds you of swirling blackness, that goes on forever, hidden from normal eyes, the perfect, dangerous place to explore and be addicted to.

something that reminds you of white clouds, floating across the sky, creating tapestries of gorgeous pictures, free to interpret and giggle over.

something that reminds you of actions, colorful vivid experiences. ones that leave a mark on your memory, but you don’t exactly remember who or what was happening, just a specific smell or sight or feeling.

and through all of those visions, you see yeojin in all of them.

not exactly see her, but she’s there, a presence that overpowers everything, so strong, taking over your mind, bringing you back to reality but ripping you away.

and then she’s right in front of you. close to your face. too close.

so close your lips are almost touching, noses brushing, eyes looking deep into each other’s souls.

and you pull away.

yeojin does too. 

and you’re back to where you started. slightly awkward, with a connection you can’t explain. back to where it’s safe.

masterlist - previous - next

[taexual]

All I Want To Do / Jaebum x Reader

THE HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO MY BABY VOSA @kpopehell 🐝 I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, I’M SENDING YOU MILLIONS OF HUGS & ALL OF MY LOVE!!! ❤️❤❤️i hope this makes you smile a little, jb helped me make this for you😏

Pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader (made for 🐝❤️ but anyone can read!)

Warnings: needy jaebum + sexual themes

Words: 2.8k

Late night studio rendezvous with Jaebum reminds you both how in love with each other you are.

You and Jaebum had just celebrated your first anniversary and you were still on cloud nine almost a month later. Since the only problem you and him encountered in your relationship was both of your busy schedules, – seriously, school was about to suck your whole soul out of you, – you were absolutely ecstatic that, at least, you got to spend a whole day with Jaebum on that special occasion.

He made a promise to you, however, and, although, you’ve learned to take his promises lightly, – he would keep them, it would just take a bit of time, - this time he really insisted he’d make this promise come true.

Jaebum had sworn he’d find enough time to see you once a week – at the very least – and, much to your surprise, he actually kept this promise for three whole weeks after he made it. This week, however, he was struggling.

You didn’t blame him, he’s told you he was writing new songs and it really wasn’t his fault that inspiration only hit him in the AM hours when you were already sleeping because you had school early in the morning. However, you were a little afraid you’d fall back into the old routine when Jaebum overworked himself so much, he forgot to eat and drink. And if he didn’t take care of himself, he obviously had no time to check up on you, either.

But that wasn’t the worst part of it. The worst part was that you would call or text him, and he would insist he was okay, even though you could literally hear the exhaustion in his voice. He stayed up for fifty hours with no sleep one time and did not even realize it.

You shuddered at the memory, immediately getting your phone out to check the time. It was almost midnight, so that meant that Jaebum was working for almost twelve hours now. Yeah, now was a good time to text him.

           YOU: Hey! Hope you’re taking care of yourself. Love you 💞

You weren’t going to ask him to give you attention – even though, ugh, you really wanted him to – because now was not the right time. He was busy.

Or maybe not too busy since your phone buzzed with his response a minute later.

           JAE: i miss you :( i’m really sorry i couldn’t take you out tonight x

Your heart warmed reading this text. Although you couldn’t hear his voice as you read his words, you could still tell he felt genuinely bad about not being able to make time for you.

           YOU: Don’t worry, maybe next time 😄💖

Just as you settled down on your bed, sighing as you prepared to spend the rest of the night watching the newest K-Drama, your phone lit up, indicating another text message from your boyfriend.

           JAE: i’m having writer’s block right now…i wish you were here with me

Man, did he know how to send your thoughts into overdrive and turn you into the most energetic version of yourself as you jumped up on the bed, sitting cross-legged now and biting your lip while you tried to come up with a response.

You didn’t get enough time to text him back anything, however, because within a few moments, Jaebum was already calling you.

“Y-yeah?” you answered, quickly realizing that you haven’t gotten enough time to recover from the avalanche of feelings his simple text caused you to suffer through.

“Hi,” Jaebum’s voice sounded tired. Again. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No,” you said. He never was. “I wasn’t doing anything. How are you? You sound like you need to rest.”

He chuckled and your heart almost stopped at the delightful sound. “I do, yeah. I was wondering… if this isn’t too much, of course. Could you, uh… well...”

“Jaebum, you know you can tell me anything,” you said gently, after having noticed his hesitation. “Is there something you need me to do?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I need you to come here. I’m in my studio.”

Oh, there were the butterflies again, chattering, “he needs you to come to him!” as they flapped their wings all around your stomach, making it difficult for you to think.

“Okay,” you ended up saying, your voice weak. “Okay, yeah. I’ll come.”

“I love you,” Jaebum replied, visibly sighing in relief after you agreed. “The door is locked because Jackson’s wandering the halls, but when—”

“W-wait, why is he wandering the halls?” you stopped him for a moment.

“Oh, he’s trying to write but he can’t stay still,” Jaebum explained. “I’m seconds away from pacing in my studio, too. That’s why I need you here. Don’t talk to him if you run into him, by the way, he’ll talk your ear off. Remember that your boyfriend is expecting you.”

Your smile widened at this – you seriously couldn’t get enough of hearing him refer to himself as your boyfriend – and you nodded, even though he couldn’t see you.

“On my way,” you said, climbing off your bed.

“Great,” he replied. “Text me when you get here, I’ll let you in.”

You managed to get to Jaebum’s studio unnoticed. Not that this was your intention or anything – the rest of the guys already knew you were together, -  you were just following Jaebum’s instructions of avoiding Jackson. And you could hear him humming somewhere down the hall but before he rounded the corner and saw you, Jaebum opened the door of the studio, pulling you inside and closing the door right away.

A wide smile was on his face when you pulled away from him far enough to actually see his face. Jaebum didn’t let you move too far away from him, though, and firmly kept his hands wrapped around your waist as he just watched your face for a few moments, not saying anything.

Unable to handle his intense gaze, you laughed lightly. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he replied in a soft voice, smiling even wider. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in so long. I’ve missed your pretty face.”

“Just my face, then, huh?” you teased, smiling.

“No,” he shook his head, swinging from side to side a little as he continued to hold you close to him. “Not just that. I’ve missed everything about you.”

Somehow, he had leaned in closer to you as he spoke and his forehead was now resting against yours. You couldn’t look into each other’s eyes anymore but – with such close proximity – eyes weren’t the thing you wanted to look at.

“I haven’t kissed you in so long, I feel like I’ve forgotten what you taste like,” Jaebum whispered, his tongue sliding over his lower lip.

You felt yourself whimper at his words and the fact that his lips were so close to yours – yet so far – wasn’t helping you calm your rapidly beating heart down.

“Do you want to remember?” you asked quietly, not wanting to break the intimate atmosphere in his studio by talking louder.

Jaebum was no longer willing to answer you with words. He showed you how much he wanted to remember what your lips felt like against his by pressing his mouth to yours. You haven’t felt this sensation in only a week and yet it seemed almost foreign. Jaebum had the ability to make every kiss seem like it was the first one and that amazed you every single time.

Fighting the never-ending surge of butterflies in your stomach, you kissed him back relishing the feeling of his soft lips pressed against yours. You could taste the fresh mint on his lips and you felt yourself smile into the kiss as you recalled the way he would always chew mint gum whenever he was tired but had to stay awake. You weren’t the biggest fan of strong mint gum yourself but tasting it on his lips felt heavenly.

His tongue gently brushed over your bottom lip, indicating that he wanted to deepen the kiss but not wanting to take you off guard. He was always like this; no matter how lost in the moment he was, he never forgot to show his respect for you by making sure you were okay with absolutely every single thing he did.

You were more than okay as your lips parted slightly, allowing him to explore more of you. You felt Jaebum sigh into the kiss as soon as his tongue touched yours and you couldn’t help but wrap your hands around his neck, pulling him closer to you. At the feeling of nearly every inch of your body pressed against his, Jaebum realized how truly long it’s been since he held you this close.

As his lips continue to move against yours in such a delicate, yet passionate way, he took one step forwards, moving with you in his arms, until you felt the back of your hips hit something hard. His desk.

Bucking his hips into yours, he pushed you forwards until you found yourself sitting down on the desk, his body between your legs as he pulled your waist closer to his to regain the status of zero space between you. His kisses were more eager now and every sound your mouths made as they moved against each other sent electric signals to your brain and you felt yourself press your hips into his.

“Baby,” Jaebum groaned at the feeling, returning his lips to yours right after, before pulling away again so he could continue. “If we keep going, I’m not going to be able to stop.”

Knowing very well where his weak spots were – not that you needed to use them against him; he was already putty in your hands – you pressed a soft kiss on his jawline. Hearing him sigh prompted you to keep going as you peppered butterfly kisses down his neck, feeling the way his grip on you tightened with every kiss.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, turning your head so you could look at his slightly hazy eyes and parted lips. “And if you don’t want to, either…”

“Oh, baby, I don’t,” Jaebum sighed, kissing you again as if he was physically unable to go longer than one minute without kissing you. “Being here with you is all I ever want to do.”

You inhaled sharply as soon as he said this, melting in his hands all over again as Jaebum pushed you further into the desk with his hips, this way managing to brush his already semi-hard length against you, causing electricity to start circling throughout your entire body.

Your deep breaths were music to his ears and he realized he could never write a song that was as beautiful as the sound of you completely losing yourself in him.

As his hands caressed your body, wanting to touch and remember every single part of you, his lips continued to move against yours. Deep, shallow breaths mixed with the sound of kissing and you could both feel the atmosphere in his studio heat up.

Not getting enough of you, Jaebum pulled your cardigan off your shoulders, wanting to discard it as quickly as possible so he could feel more of your skin. No matter how soft the material of your clothes was, you were the most beautiful to him when he could feel your skin and nothing else in-between.

Both of you heard a few items fall off his desk as he took your cardigan off but neither of you cared what it was. Losing himself in the moment so much that he stopped caring about his expensive studio equipment was a rare phenomenon but it took just one kiss for Jaebum to know that the moments he spent with you were far more expensive than anything he could have bought with actual money.

“I think about you all the time,” Jaebum said, his voice low and almost seducing. “But being with you is never like I imagine it. It’s always so much better.”

“Kiss me,” you pleaded breathlessly, unable to endure the cold feeling of his lips no longer being on yours.

He complied, leaning forwards until your back was pushed against the wall behind his desk and your hips were pressed tightly against his. He moved the hem of your shirt so he could feel the warmth of your skin and you hissed at the feeling of his cold hands on you. Immediately, Jaebum leaned in even closer to you, bringing his hips to yours again to remind you just how much he needed you right now.

“Jae…” you sighed, needing him to do something else. Something more.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered as he brought his lips to your neck, feeling the way you arched your back into him as soon as he gently sucked on a sensitive spot. “You’re so good to me. You respond to me so well. I love you so much.”

You could feel his teeth against your neck as he bit and sucked on the skin there, making your head spin.

“Oh, Jae,” you felt yourself moan quietly at the feeling of the painful pleasure he was causing you as he brought his tongue over the very obvious mark he had just made on your neck.

“Fuck…” Jaebum breathed, kissing the skin of your neck one more time before turning to face you. “You sound so pretty when you moan my name like that.”

You took the moment when his lips weren’t on yours to lift his shirt slightly, hinting for him to take it off. Jaebum caught on quickly, letting go of your body – albeit reluctantly – so he could take his shirt off and reveal more of his smooth, almost silky skin. He looked so perfect you were simply incapable of finding any flaw anywhere on his skin.

Your hands were on him as soon as his lips were on yours and within moments the two of you turned into a mess of limbs and kisses. You may have been savoring every moment before but now you needed each other fast.

With each kiss growing more eager than the previous one, Jaebum’s hands lifted your shirt up higher while you worked on the belt of his jeans, accidentally brushing your hands across his growing length every once in a while and almost making him black out with every innocent touch. Just as you finally managed to get his belt out of the way and pulled the zipper of his jeans down, you felt him sigh loudly, no doubt relieved that he was no longer painfully restrained by the material of his pants.

Blindly – because you two refused to stop kissing each other – you attempted to pull his jeans down at the same time as he worked on unclasping your bra. Your heavy breaths mixed with each other as the kisses turned sloppier with every item of clothing you managed to remove from each other.

And then, you two were forced to stop.

“Jaebum, man, it’s not working,” a loud, deep voice was suddenly heard as the door of Jaebum’s studio was thrown open. “I just can’t get that tune rig—oh. Oh—oh, shit.”

Suddenly, as you and Jaebum pulled away from each other, shocked expressions on both of your faces, you came face-to-face with Jackson who looked like he just wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!” he screamed as soon as he realized what he had just interrupted. He used his whole arm to cover his eyes as he turned around, frantically looking for the handle of the door. “I’m leaving! I’m going! I’m out!”

Jackson slammed the door loudly on his way out and made sure to double-check if he really closed it before you could hear his footsteps quickly disappearing as he ran down the hallway.

“I am going to kill him,” Jaebum stated then, sighing deeply as he rested his forehead against yours.

You chuckled at this. “It’s kind of my fault I didn’t lock the door after I came in. He didn’t know.”

Jaebum shook his head. “That’s why knocking is a thing.”

You lifted his face up so you’d be able to look at him. Just as he waited for you to say something to him, you kissed him softly and felt his lips stretch into a smile as he kissed you back.

“I love you,” Jaebum said, his voice already softer. “But I’m still killing Jackson after this.”

“After what?” you asked, smirking.

He wasn’t going to waste any more time talking as he kissed you deeply, – attempting to return you both to the passionate mood that was, somehow, always lingering nearby when it came to you two, – and this way managed to answer every question you had.

[odderancyart]

so i literally had a dream that you wrote IBVS errorlust - i dont know how since lust isnt in IBVS, but im throwing that here as a suggestion anyways lmao if you ever wanna write it

So you’re dreaming of me, Galli? Kidding, obviously, but yes. I immediately fell in love with this have 2812 words of my BS. It’s midnight now when did that happen.

IBVS @onebizarrekai

The new school was interesting, to say the least. Hanging upside down in one of the climbing ropes, Lucian watched the other students in the gym. Ink – or Isaac, he supposed, but no one seemed to call him that – sat in the corner with his friend Chris, glaring at the ‘school king’, who was hanging out with his buddies by the weights. He sniggered at his own pun, reaching up to grab the rope and pull himself upright again. The world spun for a moment as he did.Too much blood in his head. And wasn’t that a weird concept too? What even was a school king, anyway?

A couple eyes were on him, which was expected. With his dark red hair, freckles, and green eyes, he knew he was attractive. And of course, being in the position he was, it was bound he’d get attention. He grinned down at those staring at him, tiny so far below, and let himself fall upside down again. He was just under the high ceiling. If he’d climb just a bit higher, he could easily touch it. When he glanced up, he saw that his turquoise tank top had slid down, revealing his tanned stomach. Well that explained why some of them looked so doe-eyed. Lucian chuckled, winking at one of the girls down there. His grin only grew as she blushed.

He’d heard that he’d already been given one of those nicknames ‘Error’ was so fond of giving out. Lust. He couldn’t say it wasn’t fitting, he’d always been a flirt. He’d had at least a dozen datemates of various stages of seriousness in his old school before they moved here. Not on the same time, of course, except that one time it had been polyamory and perfectly consensual. Being a flirt didn’t excuse being a jerk after all.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Error get up, and he raised an eyebrow as he waved for his… friends? Minions? To not follow him. He made his way over toward the doors, and that meant his way would go past Lucian. He regarded the other appreciatively. Error was good-looking, he had to give him that. With that dark hair and those brown eyes… well. One couldn’t blame a guy for trying, right?

Just as he came past, he heaved himself up and basically let go off the rope. Quick as a viper, he slid down. It burned through his sweatpants, but it was a familiar sensation. Just before he hit the floor, he grasped the rope again, stopping himself.

Only a meter away at the moment, Error twitched, swearing in surprise. He glared at Lucian, who just smiled. “What the fuck, dude?”

“Hello, Edward,” he said, extending his hand as he jumped down on the floor. He smiled his most charming smile. “Or Error, if you prefer that. I don’t believe we’ve met. You’re looking Sharp.” When Error just stared at him in bewilderment, he grinned. “That’s me. Lucian Sharp. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh. Yeah, you’re the one who’ve already tried to get half the school in bed, aren’t you?”

He blinked, smile turning loop-sided. “Well. Get them in bed is a bit of a stretch. I’m just being friendly! New city and all, I do need to make some friends.”

Error looked unimpressed, shoving him aside. “Well I’msure as hell not going to be one of them. Keep out of my way, Lust.”

Stumbling to the side, Lucian raised an eyebrow. He hummed as the other left and regarded him from behind. The corners of his mouth tugged upwards.

He always did like a challenge.

…

“Thank you darling.” Lust smiled brightly at the ice cream seller as he handed him a strawberry cone. “I love your hair!”

“Thank you,” the ice cream man replied, smiling as he pulled his fingers through his blue-dyed hair. “Oh, and that’s two dollars and fifty cents.”

Nodding, he reached into the pocket of his tight jeans, fishing out three coins and handing them to the seller. Then he turned around to his newest friend, Bianca, who was already licking at her ice cream. She reached out to brush off some dirt from his black tank top. It had a purple heart in the middle – his favourite motif. Over it, he wore a short jeans jacket, since it was a bit chilly today.

As she pulled her hand back, she subtly pointed behind him. “Hey Lucy, Look who’s in the park today.”

“Oh?” He turned around and she stepped up to join him. A delighted smile lit up his face. Oh my gosh. That was Error, by the fountain, with a kid. The kid was the palest person Lucian had ever seen, and he was pointing eagerly at something Lucian couldn’t see. But what he could see was that Error was listening attentively, nodding as the kid chattered on. “That’s so cute,” he squealed, clapping his hands together. He loved kids, and stars, seeing Error so gentle with one just made him even more attractive. He seized Bianca’s hand, pulling her toward the fountain. She laughed and obediently followed.

“Error! Hi!” he called, and Error twisted around. They pushed themselves through a crowd and he ignored the stranger who yelled “Nice ass!” at either him or Bianca in favour of waving.

Error’s eyes widened as he saw them. He threw himself on his feet, scowling. “What do you want, Lust?”

“Ed, who’s that?” the kid asked, eyes flickering between them. Curiosity shone in them as he looked at Lucian, and Lucian smiled wider, waving at him as well.

“Hello kiddo. We’re Edward’s classmates. And we just wanted to say hi!”

“Well now you’ve done that, go the fuck away,” Error growled.

Lucian pouted, crossing his arms. “Now that’s not very nice, sweetheart.”

“And I should care why?” Error grabbed the kid’s hand, turning his back to them. “C’mon Geno, we’ll go somewhere without annoyances.”

Soon he was gone. Bianca patted his shoulder. “Sorry, pal. Even if I’m not sure why you decided you like Edward Quinton of all people.”

He chuckled, grinning at her. “Oh I’m not giving up that easily. I am befriending him if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I admire your stubbornness.”                            

“You should,love.”

…

It was one of the cronies that finally made him snap.

Catcalls, he could take. It was what you got when you dressed like he did and flirted with anyone who seemed nice. Even certain kinds of touches he hadn’t asked for. Lucian was in no way uncomfortable with physical contact, in fact he craved it. But when he was just trying to get to class in time, as he was running late, and one of those huge jocks grabbed him and pressed him up against one of the lockers with one of those disgusting smiles on his face, he wasn’t going to stand for it. The metal lockers were cold against his back as he gritted his teeth, glaring at the enormous teen holding his arms in place. He could taste the other’s breath, and it was making him nauseous.

“Let. Me. Go,” he growled, clenching his fists until his nails dug into his palms. He stared straight into the jock’s blue eyes.

“Nah,” the jock said flippantly, grinning wider. “I don’t think I will, sweetheart.”

In that very moment, the bell rang for the second time. Class had begun. Oh fuck this. “Last warning. Let go off me. I’m late for class, you asshole.” He got a similar response.

“Fuck you,” he spat. Just as the jock opened his mouth to make some ‘clever’ comeback, he threw up with his knee, right into his crotch as hard as he could. The jock groaned and let go off him, bending over. Without a word, Lucian stepped around him, grabbing his arm and twisted it behind his back. The jock whimpered as he held it in an iron grip, threatening to dislocate the other’s shoulder. Smiling sweetly, he leaned over thejock’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare try something like that again, darling,” he whispered. “To anyone. I didn’t go to self-defence classes for seven years to be harassed in the school hallway. Understood?”

When they nodded, wide-eyed, he let go off them. He jerked his backpack off the ground, throwing it over one of his shoulders. “Now if you excuse me, I must go explain to Ms. Williams exactly why I’m late.”

Without gracing the jock with a gaze, he turned around and began his trek to the classroom. Just as he reached a corner, Error came around, stopping dead as he saw the jock still on the ground, nursing his aching arm. What a baby. Lucian had had far worse than that in gymnastics training. He smiled humourlessly at Error. “Tell your buddies to stay the fuck away from me, ‘kay, sweetheart? I really don’t like people who try to force themselves into others’ space.” He didn’t wait for an answer before he stepped past the other. “Thank you, love. Really appreciate it.”

He could still feel Error’s stare in his back as he slipped into the right classroom.

…

The wind was frisk as he ran home. His bag bounced on his back and his skirt flapped around his legs as his feet thumped against the pavement. He hadn’t even stayed to say goodbye to Bianca and his other new friends, had been straight out of school as soon as the clock rang the last time. His fingers clenched around the shoulder strap and his gritted his teethas his street came into view. He stopped in his tracks, raising his arm to wipe away the tears he’d finally let slip when he left school. Then he picked up wet wipes from his bag to wipe off his face. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t let his brother worry.

It was his old school all over again. There was no way he was going to detention for defending himself again. He’d hire a lawyer if he must. Fuck, he should’ve learnt by now that schools never did anything about their ‘stars’. Lucian bit down on his lip to force himself to stop crying. Stupid. That was what he was, for thinking it would be different after they moved away. He’d always been too optimistic.

Exhaling, he stepped around the last corner into his street. The rose hedge stood tall, making it impossible to see inside the garden until he reached the metal gate. There, he froze with one hand on it. He blinked to make sure he was seeing right. “Error?” exclaimed, voice full of disbelief.

The school king looked up from his phone where he stood, leaned against a porch pillar. He smirked as he saw Lucien’s shock. “Lust,” he greeted, nodding.

After a moment, Lucien gathered himself and opened the gate, so he could come inside. God was he glad he’d cleaned himself up now. “What are you doing here, love?”

“I’m impressed,” Error admitted, “with how you dealt with Jesper. He’s an asshole, but a strong one.”

Smiling faintly, Lucien dropped his bag on the porch, sticking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Thanks. My parents made me and my brother go to self-defence when I started developing my own style. Not everyone’s so understanding of a pansexual, flirty guy who likes to wear ‘women’s’ clothes sometimes.” Extra emphasis on ‘women’s’. It was 2018, people. Why was there even such a thing anymore? Clothes were clothes.

“Well, you’re good.” He stuck his hand into his pocket, fishing up a paper that he threw to Lucian. He caught it mid-air, unfolding it in befuddlement. “A written statement from Jesper about how nothing of what happened was your fault. I live only two blocks away, so I thought I might as well deliver it myself. Give it to the principal, and you’ll be out of detention in no time.”

And indeed. As he read the paper, that was exactly what it was. Jesper, as he apparently was called, took on all guilt and declared Lucian’s actions self-defence. He stared at the paper, reading it over thrice before he turned up to look at Error, mouth agape. “But- Why?”

Error shrugged. “Hey I’m an asshole, but in difference to what you may think, I’m not a supporter of sexual harassment. Anyway, I better get home. See you.”

Before Lucian could get out a word, he was gone. Warmth blossomed in his chest as he stared after him. His eyes flickered back down to the paper, and he smiled brightly. Tears welled up in his eyes again, this time from joy.

Perhaps things would be different after all.

…

After that, he started to hang out around Error more insistently. Jesper avoided him, and so did a couple else of the ‘cronies’, as he’d overheard Ink call them when speaking to Chris. Or Cross. Honestly, he wasn’t sure who he should call by their nicknames and who wanted him to use their names. He’d have to ask Chris someday.

And at some point, Error had come to accept his company, as well as Bianca’s, since she was his new bestie and often came with him to annoy Error.

At this point, he couldn’t deny either that he had fallen in love with the school king. Not that he often denied his crushes or love-interests to himself anyway. But somehow, this did feel a little more serious than it usually did. He leaned on the fence outside of the soccer field, watching Error play with some of his friends. Lucian sighed happily as Error took the ball, dribbling it over the field. He’d actually been offered to play with them, but he’d never been much of a ball-person. Give him a pole or some ropes and he could do anything, but balls… No, not his thing.

He cheered loudly as Error kicked the ball, straight past the goalie, clapping his hands. Error dragged his hands through his hair, grinning at him, and his heart flipped. Oh the Lord have mercy on him. Except not really, he absolutely loved the fuzzy feeling in his chest when he saw Error smile at him.

Eventually, their game ended, and they all flocked around him to pick up their water bottles and some of them pulled of their shirts. Lucian was more than willing to admit most of them were incredibly handsome, but it was really only one of them who he hoped would follow suit. Unfortunately, he didn’t. Ah well.

“You were great, darling,” he sang, draping himself over Error’s shoulders, unbothered by how sweaty he was. “I’ve never cared for ball sports but it’s really fun to watch you play!”

Some of the jocks gave them amused gazes, but no one commented. Whether they simply didn’t much care or were too intimidated by Error, Lucian wasn’t sure. But he was willing to accept anything that meant Error wasn’t going to reject his affections. Even if they were just platonic at this stage.

“I know,” Error replied, obviously smug. Lucian chuckled, resisting the urge to kiss his cheek. Perhaps that’d be going a bit too far, and he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

The other players soon dispelled, going into the changing rooms. Error escaped him to do the same, but in the spur of the moment, Lucian grabbed his hand. Turning around, confusion on his face, Error opened his mouth to speak. But before he could, Lucian pressed a hand over his mouth.

“I- I need to tell you something,” he said, his heart pounding in his chest. God what was he doing this was very much the plan he didn’t even know if Error liked guys, he might be straight for fuck’s sake- Before his brain could ramble away with him and make him panic, he took a deep breath as the other raised his eyebrows, letting him speak. “I- I like you. Romantically. I completely understand if you don’t feel the same and I’m sorry if I made this awkward but I just wanted to tell you but-”

A hand seized his wrist, pulling his hands away from Error’s mouth. He shut up, snapping his mouth closed. Error’s eyes glittered with amusement and that was good right? Meant he didn’t hate him now, at least. He yelped as Error suddenly pulled and he stumbled forward. Another hand caught his cheek, and his lips met Error’s. Lucian melted. He leaned in against the other, throwing his free arm over the other’s shoulder. Butterflies filled his stomach.

When they parted, he was breathless, and he was certain his cheeks were flushed red. A smile lit up his face. “So… Does that mean…?”

Error returned his smile. “Yeah I like you too, you idiot.”

[musicallady7]

•HER•

Richard and I strolled by the river Seine admiring the streets of Paris. Everything was so aesthetically picturesque. Like a pretty painting you'd see in a museum. The river below was calm with gentle waves rippling by the water. Birds swooped down to the river with their wings flapping to get home as the sun began to set. The sky was graced with a fine line of peach clouds, the bright orange light slowly beginning to fade away as a midnight blue sky loomed over it.

Bikers pass over the bridge, riding right past us. The cool breeze blew back my hair, conveniently keeping the strands out of my face as it lightly ruffled the flowy skirt of my dress. At nearby restaurants, couples toasted over a glass of red wine, as a  little car with a family of four drove by.

Then there was Richard. He makes this scene perfect.

His face that beamed with warmth looked so radiant in the last light of the sun. A soft smile rested on his lips. I pursed my lips and felt the heat on my cheeks when my mind painted a very sensuous image of how his lips would feel on mine. His ginger red hair that contrasted against the orange lighting of the sunset was combed neatly and looked soft to touch. I was tempted to run a hand through his beautiful red locks. His emerald green eyes matched the military uniform he wore. I was delighted beyond words to hear he came home from the war safely. I was afraid I'd never see him again.

I grasped his hand that held mine a little tighter, afraid he would disappear like a beautiful mirage. He felt like a daydream.

I stared a bit longer than I hoped. He sensed me looking and met my eyes. I immediately averted my gaze somewhere else feeling my cheeks heat up.

This all seemed like a scene in a movie, but that's how it always seemed with Richard. He had quite the talent to make it all feel surreal as if it were coming off the pages of my favorite novels.

We passed by a vintage themed flower shop, where a myriad of beautiful bouquets were displayed outside in painted artsy buckets. The sweet scent of the flowers soothed me and made me exhale deeply. Richard abruptly stopped walking, gazing at the bouquets. I followed his example stopping to appreciate the flowers as well.

"They look pretty." I muttered to myself brushing my fingers lightly over their delicate petals.

"Eira" he called me, getting my attention.

"Yeah?" I asked sending him a small glance before turning back to the flowers.

"Wait here" he replied, as he motioned with his hand to stay where I was. I nodded silently, a bit distracted by the flowers. From my peripheral vision, I see him running inside the store. I wait outside as he asked, just looking around. Soon enough he walks out with a bouquet of white and pastel pink camellias in one hand.

He hands the bouquet to me, placing it in my hand "For you"

I look at him, then back at the flowers, then back up at him a couple times before I could respond. "Th-thanks" I stuttered in a small voice being absolutely flustered.

Like a schoolgirl, I tuck a strand of my platinum blonde hair behind my ear before daring to actually meet his light green eyes that bore into my soul. God, those eyes. They make me sigh dreamily when I think of them.

I still had a hard time comprehending that he actually loves me sometimes. It just feels so unreal still. Then he does all these things, says all these things, he's so sweet and sincere. I don't know if he does it conciously or unconciously but even just by the way he looks at me, like now, I can feel his adoration and love. My heart just melts. How can I not love him back?

•HIM•

After dinner we decided to walk around Paris a bit more. It was later in the night and there were only a few people left in the streets now, including me and Eira. As we walked around, I notice she would glance at the flowers then at me often. Her mind was preoccupied by something.

Suddenly, the rain started to pour down heavily. We both exclaimed in surprise being soaked from head to toe. I grabbed her hand as we ran to take cover under a small outdoor roof of a closed restaurant.

"Well that was an unexpected turn of events" she said with a laugh, looking up at the grey stormy sky that used to be clear and filled with stars earlier.

I grimaced at the sudden change of the weather. "I guess that ruins a nice evening walk"

"Hmm" she hummed thoughtfully, smiling widely afterwards. "It doesnt have to you know" she placed her bouquet at a table making sure it wouldn't fly off. She then took my hand and dragged me out to the empty streets the raindrops showering down on us. She jumped and whooped in excitement, stretching her arms upwards.

"Eira what are you doing? You might catch a cold" I warned her as I quickly took my coat off to wrap around her. She removed  the coat and hung it on my shoulders.

"Richard, if I catch a cold, you'll be there to take care of me anyway. Now come on!" She beckoned me to play in the rain with her.

She started to twirl around and splash on the puddles, laughing out loud. This is the most carefree I've seen her be. She noticed me standing there just watching her  with an amused look and splashed a puddle my way. I made an even bigger splash her way.

She gasped in surprise and laughed mischievously. "Oh, so that's how its gonna be!"

She wouldn't back down, she wanted to get her revenge. She ran to a store and took a bucket that was catching rainwater. She lifted it with ease and emptied its contents on me. I shut my eyes tight as I was drenched from head to toe. She threw her head back in laughter, then bending down and slapping her knee.

"Im going to get you!" I chased after her and she immediately ran to avoid getting caught. It came to a point where we chased each other round and round and round a car. The cycle broke when I jumped over the hood and caught her, wrapping my arms around  her waist. She shrieked in surprise, giggling uncontrollably as I spun her around in the air until she got dizzy.

"Okay okay you win. Put me down now" she gasped breathlessly as she tried to catch her breath.

I placed her back down on the ground. Once she was on her feet, she stumbled slightly and placed her hands on my shoulders to lean on me for support. My hands never left her waist. She looked up at me beaming with her frosty blue eyes. I observe them thoroughly and for the first time, noticed that she had a snowflake pattern in the irises of her eyes. I realize our close proximity and felt a shiver run down my spine at how close we were.

"Dance with me" she whispered.

"There's no music"

She chuckled softly and replied "Close your eyes and listen closely"

I did as she asked. I could hear the rain pitter patterning on the rooftops. The wind rattling the windows. The movement of the river nearby. The sound of our light breathing. Straining my ears, I listened closer. That's when I heard it. Soft music playing a soothing tune from afar. It was faint but it was there.

"I hear it" I told Eira who smiled widely. We began to sway to the tune as she slipped her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. We stared into each other's eyes as we danced focusing only on each other. When we waltzed on the empty street of Paris time seemed to stop. There was no one else in the world but us.

My breath hitched as Eira leaned in closer to sing softly in my ear.

Des nuits d'amour à plus finir

Un grand bonheur, qui prend sa place

Des ennuis des chagrins s'effacent

Heureux, heureux, à en mourir

Her voice soothed me. Like there was no trouble in the world. She sounded as soft and gentle as an angel. She has me enchanted. I am hypnotized by the way the words elegantly flow from her lips. I am trapped by her icy blue eyes. At this moment I knew I was always going to be hers.

Quand il me prend dans ses bras

Qu'il me parle tout bas

Je vois la vie en rose

Il me dit des mots d'amour

Des mots de tous les jours

Et ça m'fait quelque chose

She continued to sing as we made the street our dance floor. Light on our toes, it almost felt like we were waltzing on air, secure in each other's embrace. Holding her close, I basked in her grace and beauty. All I could focus on in the moment was her. How elegant her every move seemed. The way she smiled. How her pale skin looked absolutely radiant in the moonlight.

Il est entré dans mon cœur

Une part de bonheur

Dont je connais la cause

C'est toi pour moi, moi pour toi dans la vie

Tu me l'as dit, m'as juré pour la vie

Et, dès que je t’aperçois

Alors je sens en moi

Mon cœur qui bat

La-la-la, la-la-la

La-la-la, la-la-la

La, la, la-la

She continued to hum gently as I spun her around and lowered her body to dip. I slowly brought her back up, my eyes never leaving hers. She was truly ethereal, and she captivated me in every way. There was no escape. No matter if she felt the same way or not, my heart belonged to her.

We stood in the middle of the dimlit streets of Paris at night. The rain poured down on us in a cold shower. The moon was a subtle silhouette in a puddle nearby. The soft music was masked behind the whistle of the wind.

And there's Eira. She is what makes this scene perfect.

We held our breaths as we stepped closer and closer to each other. She slowly brought her hand up and caressed my cheek. I leaned in to her soft touch. Her eyes flickered to my lips and she stared intently at them. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as she leaned in close enough that our lips brushed against each other.

The next moment, I am taken by surprise when she planted her lips on mine and tugged on my collar to pull me into a soft yet passionate kiss. For a few seconds I froze unable to respond and had a hard time registering it in my head that she was kissing me. She was kissing me.

Eira was about to pull away, not feeling me kissing back but as soon as I noticed that, I responded quickly, gently holding her face and kissing her senseless. Our lips moved perfectly together, in sync. As I closed my eyes, I can feel her smile into the kiss when I ran my fingers through her hair. She wrapped her arms around my torso and pulled me in closer that I can feel her heartbeat on my chest just as rapid as mine.

I cant remember how long I waited for this to happen and now it finally was. Eira couldn't help but giggle, interrupting the kiss. I chuckled fondly at her being adorable. Her eyes met mine once more.

We simply gazed at each other saying nothing yet having a mutual understanding. Nothing needed to be said.

Disclaimer: I dont own the song La Vie En Rose

[punishandenslavesuckers]

She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She'll never have any peace now. (ao3)  

(chapter one) (chapter two) (chapter three)

They cross a trio of traveling merchants on their way toward Hebra.

There’s an outbreak of fever among the Rito, something Teba wrote Link about, something… strange. A sleeping disease that comes quickly and then smothers the afflicted incrementally, relentlessly, to death over the course of a few weeks. Link sent the message back that they’re coming to help. Fruit purchases would seem secondary, but Teba’s boy, Tulin, likes Lurelin star fruit and Link has a notion of spoiling the kid. So he picks out a dozen, sorting non-bruised specimens from a large saddle-strapped basket.

Zelda watches Link’s process while trying very hard to appear that she’s not watching him because then he might become self-aware of the faces he’s making when he carefully thumbs the skin of an unsatisfactory fruit and puts it back. He kind of wrinkles his nose, looks apologetic, and tried another.

Draga, who is not hiding that he’s watching, says, “Teba is the warrior who fought with Link to subdue Vah Medoh. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Not the one with the accordion.”

“No, that’s Kass.”

“Kass is the traveling musician?”

“Hence the accordion.”

“Do the Rito know about Link?”

“No. They think he’s a great-great-grandchild of the Champion and Link doesn’t, you know, argue with them.”

“You’re both unbelievable.”

The other two merchants – a spice-trader, and fish-merchant respectively – are eyeing them a little. The larger one, the fishmonger, sits forward on his horse a little bit, squinting as though he just can’t quite get a proper look at the three of them. Zelda isn’t sure, but the fishmonger might be day-drinking if the slack-muscled blinking is any indicator. The spice-trader looks nervous. Like a woman waiting to jump in to break up a fight, like she just knows something is going to go wrong in the next few moments. She’s certain.

And then fishmonger says, “Oi, you’re that fuckin’ guy,” and the spice trader literally starts appealing to the gods.

It takes Link a second to realize he’s being spoken to. He frowns, in the middle of counting out payment, and doesn’t answer.

“Link right?”

Link ignores him.

“Yeah, thought so. Jessie, you shouldn’t sell to ‘im.” The fishmonger hiccups, cheerful in his bearing of bad news. “He’s a demon, ya know. Traded his fuckin’ soul to the Mountain Lord for power.” Another hiccup. “People saw ‘im. Riding the beast of Satori Peak across Hyrule Field. No lie.”

Zelda and Draga exchange a look. It’s not… a surprised look.

Link’s ignoring the man, calmly ties the fruit-bag to Epona’s saddle to evenly distribute the weight. He selects one of the starfruit, however, and careful sinks his teeth into it. That way, it stays in place while he mounts up. Once seated, facing his abuser, Link doesn’t make any move to eat the fruit, just sits there with it in his mouth, staring. The star-fruit is just the right size to make him look a little like a dog with a ball. Fishmonger, too busy expounding on his story, doesn’t notice.

He’s wagging a finger now. “It’s people like you… you are the reason…”

Link reaches up and slowly takes a bite of fruit.

“You are the reason that… this kingdom is going to the dogs. You. People like you.”

Link proceeds to slowly eat the fruit while maintaining the polite, emotionless expression of a person trapped in line with the town’s fanatical but harmless whackjob. Occasionally, he gives a sympathetic nod. Yes. He is a monster/demon/changeling/whatever. A were-creature. A whatcha-ma-call-it. The other merchants look ashamed. Maybe they look a little afraid, but that’s mostly because Draga looks really aggravated mounted up on his giant war horse looking Lynel-sized and murderous in his dark traveling gear and glaring. Eventually, they route the drunk man away, hushing him loudly as they go.

Link wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and waves cheerfully.

“You rode a god?” Draga demands when they’re alone.

Link looks abashed and goes back to eating his fruit, discretely kicking Epona into a trot.

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

Draga follows him, sounding a little desperate.

“Link, are you joking?”

Link rides away faster.

“Link!”

Zelda watches them zig-zag up the road like an absurd cat and dog, racing away too quickly for Maru to bother catching up. They’ll circle back after Draga finishes yelling. Knowing that, Zelda takes a moment to enjoy the quiet as the distance grows. Soon, she can’t hear anything but Maru’s hooves on the road. She closes her eyes then, gathering her hair at the back of her neck and turning her face into the sun. For a moment, it’s just that feeling – sunshine on her face and the rhythm of Maru walking down the road. She smiles at little. She smiles a lot. She’s not sure what to do with it – the excess of happiness in that moment so she lets it just breathe.

She feels a tug, just a little, like a thread twined around something somewhere behind her breastbone and running down her right wrist.

When she opens her eyes, Link and Draga have stopped to circle back.

But the sun and the happiness are easy to focus on and she’s looking forward to making fun of them when they get back to her. The point is, she does not think anything of the tug.  Nothing at all. 

  Serenne Stable is populated primarily by trappers, traveling merchants, Leviathan researchers, and Rito flying in from the north-west part of Hebra. The main room’s crowded. Loud with guests both coming and going. Link is at the front desk smiling at the innkeeper in that way that will probably get them a discount. Zelda would tell him to knock it off, but there’s something kind of fascinating about watching strangers get charmed by a man she sees so often she has no unbiased perspective of him. She and Draga claim a table near the back of the common room and start dumping gear on the floor, glad to be off the road for a moment.

“I can never tell,” Draga says, taking a seat, “which Rito are male or female.”

Which might be a strange break into conversation, except one of the Rito, a red-feathered hunter by the looks of them, is pulling Link aside to speak with him near the front door.

 “Can’t help you there,” Zelda says, sitting down across from Draga. “There isn’t much in the way of sexual dimorphism in their race, at least not now. I think in different ethnicities of Rito, there are definite phenotypical signs, but so many of them have inter-married now that’s hardly a reliable checklist to refer to.” A beat of quiet goes on too long as Zelda catches the look Draga’s giving her. “Uh, that is to say… I don’t… I don’t know either.” She coughs. “That one might be male through. He’s kind of… tall?” As though there were not tall female Rito. She bows her head. “I don’t know.”

Draga’s leaning back in his seat, which is putting some real strain on the carpentry.

He’s watching Link, who’s got his hands on his hips, listening to the Rito. The hunter is making a comment, Zelda thinks, about the feather token braided in his hair because they kind of touch it with the edge of one enormous wing, lifting it from where it hangs against his chin. Which means, when they move it, they touch Link’s face. Both Zelda and Draga kind of… tilt their heads concurrently. Link doesn’t seem bothered. Perhaps he knows the hunter. He’s not smiling but doing that calm neutral stare that says, without a single word, I’m listening. You have my attention. The Rito laughs, then kind of bends down to say something, softly enough that Link has to turn his head and let them put the long, wicked curve of their beak near his ear.

“I think,” Draga says, rocking back on the legs of his chair and openly trying to get a better angle. “I think that Rito is preening his hair…”

Zelda snorts.

“Link’s not giving a damn thing away, but I think that’s what’s happening there.”

“Is he getting red?”

“A little.”

“That’s probably what’s happening then.”

“Is that flirting?”

“For Rito? I mean… well, it’s a little more than flirting, I think.”

Link takes a seat at their table a few minutes later. He’s just a little pink, but otherwise calm. He puts a single brass room-key on the table between them – meaning he’s sprung for a party suite and soft beds. Zelda is, very briefly, distracted by the imminent possibility of a bath and extremely soft sheets. Link presently goes about the task of unpacking things from his bag, putting his bow on the table, beginning his routine for weapon repairs with a kind of singular focus. He does not look up at either of them while he does this, though it’s obvious he can feel their expectant gazes against the top of his head. He digs a bag of roasted almonds from his pack and starts eating them. Studiously, even professionally ignoring them.

“Do you know that Rito?” Zelda asks conversationally.

He nods once, curtly.

“Who is… she? He?”

Link eats a handful of almonds and says, through the lot, “He.”

“What did he ask you about?”

Link, swallowing audibly, points at the feather in his hair.

“What about it?”

“It can mean things,” he says ambiguously.

Zelda laughs. “Like what?”

Draga grins, folding his arms. “Did Fyson give you an admiration plume?”

Link stiffens.

Zelda gasps in delight, hands coming together against her lips. “Oh! Oh, did he? Is that what they look like now?” She flaps a hand at Draga when he frowns at her. “No, see, one-hundred years ago a Rito would give a feather on a necklace or something more formal. Is it less formal now? Do they just put it, like, in their head feathers now or…? Oh. That’s sweet. Does it still mean what it used to mean? Because back then it was like this… well, it was kind of a declaration you were interested in them, but it could be just for great admiration or…”

Link rather pointedly flips his cloak’s hood up and pulls it down low over his eyes.

Draga sits forward, boots flat on the floor, still grinning. “Did that Rito come on to you because you have it?”

Link’s turning red now. He just sits there for a moment, turning redder, then, “Maybe.”

“But you turned him down?”

Link yanks his hood off so he can give Draga the full effect of his glare. Draga is entirely unaffected. He’s got his chin propped in his palm now, kind of smiling in self-satisfaction. Zelda has both hands clasped under her chin. Link, seeing this, tosses both hands up and gives them a very clear sign with one finger and starts to go back to weapon repairs. Or, at least, he starts to. But Draga sits forward and reaches over to hook two fingers around the offending braid, lifting it so he can look at it more closely.

Link side-eyes him, but doesn’t move away.

Draga studies the detail work. “You don’t mind it when Rito men give you their attention?”

Link arches a brow. Then, after a moment, with careful enunciation: “No,” he says, “I don’t.”

“Hmm. Discount rooms. Admiration plumes. Zora armor.” He flips the braid with a teasing grin. “Do you get marriage proposals everywhere you go?”

Link stops blushing. Instead, all the blood backs out of his face and he tries, unsuccessfully, to smile.

Zelda’s hands just drop, however, and all traceries of previous delight evaporates.

Draga, sensing he’s made a mistake, immediately sits back. “Sorry. I meant nothing by that.”

Link gives up on the defensive smile and the void left in his expression doesn’t seem to fill. He starts signing.  

‘Do you know Zora wedding traditions?’

Zelda translates.

Draga shakes his head. “I don’t.”

’Zora don’t make armor for their betrothed. They usually hand-craft jewelry.’ Link waits for Zelda to finish translating. ‘Zora royalty are expected to lead soldiers in battle, physically, to be on the field. So, Zora princesses craft armor with lightscale for their intended.’ Here Link touches a spot just below his throat, near the dip of his collarbone. ‘Lightscale is here, on a Zora. Only the females. Thin as paper, harder than diamond. A Zora princess can spare the one over her heart and the scale that grows back will be twice as tough, every time.”

“Doesn’t that leave the princess vulnerable for a time?” Draga asks softly.

Link laughs. Once.

“Yes,” he says.

That’s the point, he does not say. That she bares her heart for her people. That she might risk death for them.

Link’s looking very hard at the table in front of him, at his hands resting there among the tools and weapons he’d started to work on. No one says anything for a while. Zelda can’t even remember Link unpacking Mipha’s tunic – feather light scale-mail, so strong it can turn aside any blade, and so obviously a treasure he doesn’t dare wear it openly lest it draw attention. She does know, sometimes, discretely, he wears it under his tunic in place of regular mail. She catches him, sometimes, touching the filigree in the sleeves beneath his shirt, like one counts off beads on a rosary.

Maybe that’s how Draga saw it – caught Link in a thoughtless moment remembering the dead.

He waits until Link’s shoulders relax a little before speaking again, quietly.

“Did you ever get to see the Lightscale Festival?” Draga looks at Link. Gets no response so he elaborates. “The Zora hold the Lightscale Festival every year when the rains come. All Zora come back to the Domain. On the festival day, they send down the river, with their prayers, hand-crafted lanterns made from the shells of ocean creatures. Everyone knows this, because all the rivers in Hyrule carry tens of thousands of lanterns to every corner of the kingdom… and every one of them has her name written inside.” Draga leans forward a little. “I lived in a land where no rivers reach and even I know Princess Mipha was a wonder.”

Link has his eyes closed. His hands are fists on the table top.

“I’m sorry, my friend. I… didn’t make the connection.”

Link tries to say something but can’t get the sound to touch his tongue. His hands don’t move from the table where Zelda can see he’s clenching them so tightly the bones of his knuckles are pushing white beneath the skin. His palms will bleed where his nails dig in. Link finally signs something, but he doesn’t… do it properly. He just slowly spells out the words so he doesn’t need to raise his hands much. Like moving too much will disturb an old wound, like he can go still enough to avoid it.

Zelda translates for him.

“Mipha and I… grew up together.”

“I knew you grew up with the Zora,” Draga murmurs. “I just didn’t assume who specifically.”

The silence goes on long enough (Link struggling visibly to say anything for long enough) that Zelda swallows the terrible heat in her own throat. She moves on reflex, her hand moving to touch Link’s hand, then stops, unsure. But she can’t take it back now, so she lays her fingers carefully over his hand.

“Do you remember,” she asks, “that time Revali and Urbosa were fighting about how to position the Divine Beasts? They fought about it for three days straight.” She swallows, pressing on into his silence. “They just… couldn’t stop fighting. About everything. I thought they were going to kill each other before the Calamity even came. Honestly, it was very disheartening. I…” Zelda doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. She tries a new one. “Do you know that they stopped fighting because of you and Mipha?”

Link finally looks up. Gods, has he always been this blank with grief? Has it always been this obvious? When he’s holding still, no longer moving, was it always this clear? How did she miss it? She grabs his hand with two of hers, holding tight.

“That day you two were sparring and… Anyone could see it – that you’d trained together for years. That you trusted each other. Mipha was the fastest, the deadliest with her Beast but the quickest to… to be gentle when it was right. She was so much… better at everything and I loved her too. Have I ever said that?” She swallows, hard. She’s not allowed to cry this time. “Mipha brought everyone together. Everyone. And I… I am so sorry for…”

Link’s calm buckles.

He grabs her hand too tightly, crushing her fingers in his, but she ignores it. The bone-bruising pressure is a relief, an echo far, far away. Because the pain has snapped to the forefront of Link’s entire being and, for a second, it’s there on his face – twisted up and ugly, a knife wound, a fucking certainty. All the stillness and silence and calm scraped away to the raw face of it – the fact of it: That he is alive and Mipha is dead twice over, her body consigned for 100 years now to the tomb Vah Ruta. Her shade departed. No burial rites in the face of the final battle. Nothing left at all.

Zelda is, she knows, a whole century too late for condolences.

But Draga has no concept of that. He doesn’t live in their distorted timeframe. He just moves forward and places a hand against Link’s shoulder and says:

“I’m sorry she’s gone, Link.”

And it’s so normal of him. Like their just people. Like they’re anyone else.

She thinks, perhaps, they don’t know how to do that anymore.

When the first spasm of weeping hits Link, it’s not actually at the table but in the stairwell as they move their things to their room for the night. He hits the wall like his right knee gave out suddenly and Draga grabs the back of his tunic. He says nothing, just waits. Link recovers. Physically, literally bites it back, keeps hauling his things up the steps and into the hall. Zelda waits. Draga waits. The second spasm hits Link in the door to the suite. Again, he swallows it back. Makes it two steps into the room. The third spasm floors him.

Draga, seemingly prepared for this, lets Zelda pull Link onto the nearest bed while he goes about unpacking food from a rucksack. He ignores Link’s hyperventilating, his shaking, the way he doesn’t seem aware of the tears running from his closed eyes, or how he keeps grinding his teeth instead of sobbing. Draga just kneels in front of him to push things into his hands: A napkin with a piece of gummy cake and canteen of something that smells like honey and turpentine. Link opens his eyes long enough to shake his head, trying to refuse it, but the bigger man just presses both insistently into his lap.

Link hisses, frustrated.

“Just eat it and drink,” Draga says.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to after that. Okay?

Link barely manages it, but he does manage. It’s hard to cry and eat at the same time. Maybe that’s the point. Whatever is in the canteen sends him into a fit of coughing, but by the time he finishes, the hyperventilation is slowing and the uncontrollable shaking smoothing out. Draga takes the empty napkin and the canteen and sits forward enough to – with an inquiring slowness – reach a hand toward Link. When he nods, Draga carefully uses two fingers to turn his face into the lamp light, watching his pupils react to the brightness. Satisfied, he turns the touch into a soft tap against the hero’s chin.

“You’re okay,” he assures them both. “Try to sleep.”

“What was that?” Zelda asks, a little suspiciously.

“Possibly the last Akkala honey-wine in the kingdom, but it seemed like the occasion.” He shrugs. “It’s, uh, strong.” A beat. “In a couple of ways.”

Which is about when Link collapses back on the mattress, body slack, and lies there breathing slowly, like every bone in his body just stopped supporting his weight. Zelda scoots back so she can peer down at him. Draga just stays where he is, kneeling, waiting. Link’s gaze is pale and unfocused, roving the ceiling for a while as the full effect of the drink unfurls warm fingers through his body. He inhales, but it’s shaky. Every breath has a rattle. He wipes his face with one hand.

“You can miss things retroactively,” he says.

That probably shouldn’t break Zelda’s heart. It does though.

Later, lying in bed, Zelda runs her fingers through Link’s hair, not sure if that’s soothing, not sure how to touch him at all. He feels like a river interrupted. He shivers in her arms and its dangerous. Like she could break a circuit inside him and all that terrible agony would jump off his skin and hit her blood like lightning. She holds him anyway. Fully clothed, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for light to move across the walls, for Link to catch his stuttering breath, for Draga to move from where he’s sitting with his back against the bed, arms folded, also wide-awake and waiting.

“Thank you,” she says much later. After Link’s breathing slows and deepens.

Draga turns his head. “No trouble,” he says in Gerudo.

“I never knew how to talk about her.”

“There is no right way to speak about the dead and no right way to comfort the living. Just make your best guess.”

“She was everything to him.”

“You’re probably right.”

A beat.

“Akkala honey-wine is worth its weight in gold, you know.”

Draga stands up, slowly, stretching when he gets to his feet. “Don’t tell Link. He’ll just feel guilty for not enjoying it.”

“Thank you, though, Draga. Really.”

He turns around to look at her. She can’t move because Link’s sleeping on her arm, his head against her shoulder, one arm around her ribs. They didn’t undress, so they still smell like the road. When she moves her head, she can smell campfire smoke in Link’s hair, the sour aroma of salt and sweat. Their legs are tangled, one of her knees crooked slightly between his legs, his right boot heel hooked behind hers. Draga tilts his head and, for a moment, she can’t read the way he’s looking at them – curled together like cats in a blanket.

Then, very carefully, he moves one hand toward hers, where she’s idly running her fingers through Link’s hair. She stops so Draga can, gently, tuck a section of wheat-gold hair behind the other man’s ear and, for a moment, lay his hand against the top of his head. Then she can read his expression – this formless kind of regret. A mirroring grief that wasn’t there before but she knows instinctively. Zelda isn’t sure what to say or where that’s coming from, what wound or rivaling loss… so she just lays her hand over Draga’s. She threads her fingers through his from the top so her fingernails scrape just slightly at Link’s scalp and they both feel him sigh, deeply, in his sleep.

Draga catches her eyes then, just for a second.

In that second, Zelda becomes aware, suddenly, of her palm pressed against Draga’s knuckles. Of all the bones in her hand, of all the bones in Draga’s hand, of Link’s breath against her collarbone – all three things common as sunlight and boring as bread in any other context but this moment suddenly. Link turns his head a little against her shoulder. She ignores it. She smiles, loops her fingers more firmly though Draga’s and holds his hand tightly – converting the moment into something more recognizable to her.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Draga gives her a half-smile. “I just wanted a horse, you asshole.”

She has to physically choke back the laugh to keep from waking Link.

  “There’s a wolf following us.”

“Just one?” Link says, not looking.

“Yes,” Draga says slowly, clearly registering Link’s non-concern. “But it’s… big.”

Link cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, twisting in his saddle to see. Zelda looks too and sure enough, there’s a wolf on the road behind them. For a moment, she doesn’t get what Draga means when he says it’s big for a wolf since the average wolf is nearly twice size of a grown man on all fours. But then she realizes that the perspective is tricking her eyes. She thought it was nearer than it is. The wolf is quite a distance back but it just happens to be the size of a pony. It’s loping easily along the edge of the old forest path.

Draga pulls Arbiter’s reins, turning his horse around in the road. The wolf stops. They wait a while. The wolf doesn’t move. Cautiously, they set out again down the road and, in step with them, the wolf breaks into a trot. Like a Hylian Retriever headed for the farm. Draga stops again, this time reaching for his bow.

But Link says, unexpectedly, “Don’t.”

Zelda looks at him. “Link?”

“We’re downwind from it.”

“So?”

“The horses aren’t spooking,” Draga says warily.

Link stares up the road at the wolf, face… interested but blank. Eyes fixed on it in a way she’s not sure she understands. For a moment, she thinks the light in his eyes is animal green, back-lit by fairy luminance, but she can’t be sure. He pulls Epona around to face the beast. The wolf cants its massive head at him. Now that she’s really looking at it, the beast’s fur seems matted. Like it’s got its hackles up or… No. Not that. It’s just… almost maned, like a lion alone the back of his neck and spine. Storm gray, cream under belly and jaws. She can’t quite make it out, but she thinks there’s a marking on its forehead – like a sigil whorled there in ink. Its eyes though – bright almost phosphorescent blue in the dark mask of fur.

“What is it, Link?”

“A god maybe,” he says.

“Of what?” Draga murmurs.

“The forest.” Link hasn’t taken his eyes off it. “Or wolves.”

Draga surreptitiously glances at Zelda. He’s palmed the massive recurve bow from his back, his other hand resting on the quiver at his hip. They’ve traveled together long enough that Zelda knows Gerudo gods don’t walk the roads of their sacred lands in physical forms and, to him, there’s some question in his mind what is divine and what is demonic in this kingdom. She can feel that tang in the air that suggests he’s idly pulling some sorcery to bear – close to his skin, like heat off a stone. Link doesn’t seem to notice – or if he does, he doesn’t care – because he dismounts. Epona seems equally indifferent, lipping his shoulder fondly as he moves toward the wolf.

“Link,” Draga says through his teeth.

When he’s ignored, he looks at Zelda.

“I don’t… think it’s dangerous,” she says. She glances at Draga. “What are you feeling?”

He lowers his voice and in Gerudo, says, “Like it ripped my throat out in a past life.”

Before she can react to that, Link kneels in the middle of the road, one forearm braced against his knee, opposite fist set against the dirt. She can’t hear it, but she’s pretty sure he’s speaking – words low and unfamiliar. The giant wolf tilts its head back and forth, like its listening to whatever he’s saying and, for a moment, Zelda could believe it: a rogue of god wolves hearing a traveler’s prayer on the road, the forest bending inward with every divine lupine breath…

But then the giant wolf kind of bounces on its forelegs. Then it bounds forward in a single terrifying lunge, so fast Link jerks back but not fast enough and – the beast knocks him down and drags a giant tongue from his chin to forehead. Then it barks, panting, and bounds off into the trees, vanishing into the underbrush.

Link sits there, kind of stunned, blinking.

Draga lowers his bow and the air around him seems to cool.

“Mad,” he says, turning his horse around.

Link scrubs his face and turns to look at Zelda. He seems genuinely perplexed.

“You should stop being strange in front of Draga,” Zelda says, ignoring his confusion. “He’ll catch on if you don’t rein it in.”

Link just grins at her. 

  Maybe Link wasn’t taking the fight seriously. Maybe it’s been a while since he fought a person and not a monster.

Either way, he seems genuinely surprised to find himself flat on his back all the air knocked out of him. For a moment, he just kind of lies there, eagle-spread, looking puzzled. Draga looms overhead. He’s holding that claymore-sized scimitar one-handed. He seems vaguely unimpressed. Link nurses the region just below his sternum where – after blocking a blow like a cannonball – Draga swatted his defense aside and put a back-handed pommel in his gut. He grimaces, struggling to sit up, and Zelda can’t remember the last time she saw anything short of a Lynel put Link in the dirt.

“Focus or I’m going to hurt you,” Draga says.

“I’m not healing either of you,” Zelda shouts from her seat very far away. The horses are penned around the log she’s sitting on, grazing boredly around her. She raises her voice. “This is going to end badly!”

“Don’t worry,” Draga calls. “We’ll be back to Lynel hunting or dragon chasing or army killing or whatever terrible thing you’ve found for us to do.”

“Healing sick Rito children you mean? That?”

Link sits up, warily.

Draga smirks at him. “You best just use whatever magic you have, Hero. I plan to do some cheating of my own.” A beat. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Link climbs back to his feet, wrinkling his nose at his opponent.

“Forgot how to lose?” Draga asks, squaring up casually. “Or does that sword do all the work?”

Link hefts his sword a little and rolls his shoulder. He eyes Draga sidelong as he a takes up defensive stance across from him. They’re not using shields which Zelda thinks might be more to Draga’s advantage than Link’s – the man with double his reach, height, and body weight. But then again, Link’s never up to size against any opponent. It also rarely makes a difference against Link’s inhuman precognition and speed. And, more to the point, Link has that blade in hand and there’s nothing in the universe that stops him, truly, when it’s awake.

“Ready?” Draga says, the scimitar up, angled slightly between them.

Link exhales, then nods.

It’s instant. Draga darts across the space between them so fast Link only just manages the footwork to block. Zelda’s palms itch. She rubs them together as Draga slams Link’s sword aside in a series of deadly rapid swings, each one hitting with such force that the third blow throws Link staggering. Draga’s fast despite his size. He’s immediately in Link’s guard for the follow through, slashing at his open flank. Link has to dive-roll to the right, scramble back then somersault away from a two-handed downswing.

Draga’s sword slams into the ground like a pickaxe. Link lands cat-like then lunges. Draga’s wide open, fully committed to his previous swing and – Wrong. Draga pivots, raking the ground with his free hand and flings gravel directly into Link’s face. He flinches. Draga puts a boot in his chest and hits Link so hard he skids in the dirt for three meters before rolling back on his feet. He looks shocked. He coughs, grips his ribs with one hand, blade up with the other.

Draga inspects a long tear in his shirt, a shallow cut in his light mail from his hip to his shoulder – a defensive swing, struck before he could kick Link out of range. Draga eyes him, clearly deciding on another attack. But Link’s giving him a look: confused, almost hurt, blue-eyed and just on the edge of anger. He wipes the dirt from his face, pointedly.

“This isn’t tournament rules,” Draga says, a little exasperated. “Cheat back, hero.”

Link tilts his head. There’s something a little… predatory about how he does that. He rotates the sword in his hand a little… then grips the hilt, hard, like he hadn’t had a proper hold before and Zelda feels the change, a focus running from the blade to his palm to his boots and rooting him in some previously untapped current in the earth. Grounding him. The hair rises along her arms and she sits forward, frowning. Link squares up again. Draga does too, slowly. He can smell the change the same as she can but she can tell it interests him. She can feel that… shapeless density Draga has coming to bear somehow. Like extra gravity, like the world pulls in more tightly around him and he brings his blade to bear.

Zelda shivers. Digs her nails into the mossy wood beneath her.

“Ready?”

Link nods.

Zelda catches the spilt-second grit in the dirt when they both leap forward, where their boots push off the earth – then the deafening explosion when Draga’s sword connects with the divine blade and explodes. Not snaps. Explodes. Like a black-powder charge detonating between them. Draga hits the ground on his back, snarling, armor smoking. The tang of metal and defensive magic – thick, almost sickly sweet, and likely the only reason Draga’s head is still attached. The remains of the scimitar rain down in brittle pieces, the hilt landing somewhere in the woods.

Zelda’s on her feet immediately. “Draga!”

Link lands in a crouch. She’s never seen that expression before – that razor-thin edge of grief and shock where she can see him replaying the thousand alternate universes where his friend is dead by his hand.

He throws the Master Sword down and dashes forward. Zelda is already on her knees beside Draga who’s levered himself up into a sitting position, grimacing as he inspects his sword arm. There’s blood. A lot of blood. The entire limb shakes either from the pain or struck tendon. There’s a gash in his palm and his fingers, like the hilt of his own sword turned against him and cleaved through his glove into his hand. Bone glints in the red pulse of blood and Link stares at the wound, speechless. He tries to say something, but the syllables stick so violently they almost manifest a stutter.

Draga shakes his head. “No. I goaded you into it. It’s not your fault.”

“You’re an idiot,” Zelda snaps at him, heat gathering in her palms. She does not look away from her work, one hand holding his wrist, the other cupping the back of his knuckles. Her fingers start to glow internally. “He broke your wrist and most of the bones in your hand and you’re lucky that’s all it did. You knew what the blade was. Why on earth did you try this?”

He shrugs. “Wanted to see what the Lynel felt like.”

“The Lynel felt dead, Draga.”

“Well, I don’t. So, all’s well, princess.”

“Do not ‘princess’ me while I’m gluing your arm back together.”

He nods, almost thoughtful. “Can I tell you two something?”

Link makes an exasperated noise of assent.

“What?” she grouses, eyes fixated on the knitting skin beneath her fingers.

“I think, if I’d managed my focus a little better… I’d have had that exchange.”

Zelda looks at him. She’s not sure what his face is telling her when she studies him for any sign he’s joking, that he’s serious about defending against the blade that seals evil when Link’s holding it with any real intention. He seems calm, polite. She doesn’t think he’s unrealistic about things and that concerns her – his sincerity that he can beat Link. That he’d like to. She feels a shiver climb her spine, a cold crawl in her body. What? For gods’ sake it’s just Draga. Link’s hovering anxiously behind her, watching her undo the damage – the familiar recapturing of stray blood and the atomic stitching of muscle and skin. She erases any sign that there was a fight between them.

“There,” Draga says, showing Link. “No harm done and nothing a couple fairy tonics couldn’t undo, even if Zelda didn’t loan us her expertise.”

She feels Link start to smile without looking, a quiet glow of relief.

“You’re not immortal,” she says. “Being brave or reckless doesn’t make you immortal.”

Draga, flexing his hand, looks sharply at her. Link too, because he recognizes the words and the tone. Zelda looks over her shoulder at him, glaring.

“You know better,” she says.

“Zelda…” Link starts to say, but she’s already on her feet and walking off.

“Don’t fight again!” she says, loudly.

She can’t explain her panic, the cold rise of hair and gooseflesh, the heat behind her eyes, her mouth bone dry. She can feel them staring after her, confused. Good. They will think she’s just mad at them for injuring themselves, upset generally at their recklessness, their bloody-mindedness – the usual sensible reasons for being mad and not this… instinctive terror. A terrible de-ja-vu. It’s in the roots of her teeth, in her palms, the marrow of her bones. She stays away from camp until her hands stop shaking.

When she comes back, Link and Draga are seated cross-legged facing one another in the grass.

Link is signing, ‘I love pie.’

Which seems odd until Draga awkwardly mirrors Link’s hand-motions and says, “That seems lengthy for a hello.”

Link maintains his cool. “No. It means ‘hello’.”

Draga signs, ‘I love pie.’

Link smiles.

“Like that?” Draga says, suspicious.

“Yes.”

And suddenly, Zelda is less anxious than she was before.

.

.

.

go to chapter 5...