#so there i was. tears on my face. taking the two halves of the bird’s skull out with tweezers and putting it in a ziplock bag.

[rowonlgc]

father. mother. brother. rowon.

on record, they’re a family of four. not exactly picture perfect. but not exactly dysfunctional either. just - normal.

father. mother. brother. rowon.

they used to celebrate chuseok together over homemade songpyeon and jeon, courtesy of brother dearest. father was often late, too much work. mother had the appetite of a people-pleaser and was usually right on time. and rowon - well, rowon came and went.

father. mother. brother. rowon.

the incident: two birds, one stone.

father. mother. brother. rowon.

the only picture that exists of them dates back to 2000. father held brother. mother held the other. they weren’t expecting two, but they welcomed both with warmth. how, then, did their home become so cold? the concept of family - the idea of blood - none of them knew what it meant, but they knew how to mimic it.

father.

mother.

kian.

rowon slows to a stop in front of his brother’s room. i owe you my life, comes from within. his hand tightens around the doorknob. he recognizes that voice all too well; it’s been a constant presence over the last several years. i came back for you. his skin crawls. his grip begins to shake. there’s a dagger in his chest. he knows that he can take it by the handle, take it out, toss it away, and he’d be okay - but he doesn’t do that, no. he takes it by the handle, drives it in deeper, and lets himself feel. this is his jealousy: a piercing pain, a wound, and a want.

and oh, he wants.

kian was robin’s best friend. kian was robin’s lifeline. the first time rowon had mentioned his name, robin - thought to be unresponsive - suddenly started to cry. he cried when rowon read kian’s letters from canada to him. he cried when rowon took pen to paper and wrote a response, signed robin. he cried and he cried and he cried - and the more he did, the more -

his knuckles regain their color.

rowon intrudes.

“sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” he closes the door behind him and makes his way over to kian’s side. “don’t worry, i didn’t catch much. just the kick your ass part that i also want in on. hear that, robin? if you don’t wake up soon, we’re both kicking your ass.” he leans down next to his brother’s face, his gaze drawn to the already dim light seeping from a pair of identical eyes. robin stares back, unblinking. “you made him cry.” rowon lets what sounds like an accusation linger for a second longer before straightening up and offering kian a smile. “must’ve really missed you. we came by yesterday to celebrate with him, but he didn’t shed a single tear for us, and we’re his family. or maybe he’s just tired of seeing us all the time. you know how overbearing my mom can get.” he motions at the washcloth in kian’s hand. “thanks for taking care of him. he’s lucky to have you.”

the knife twists.

it guts, and it gouges.

he wants him. he wants him. he fucking wants him. ( not in that way, never in that way. ) he wants him because kian - because kian is robin’s best friend. because kian is robin’s lifeline. because kian is robin’s.

“are you going back for christmas? if not, you should join us. my parents have been asking about you. they like you a lot. pear?” he holds out a tupperware of pear halves. “i’m sure robin wouldn’t mind sharing.” not that robin’s capable of having any - but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

The hospital was unusually quiet tonight, the chaotic halls so still that Kian could hear the hum of the machines that worked to keep his friend alive. Everyone was off celebrating Chuseok with their loved ones. Well, everyone except Kian. His family was all the way in Canada... and even if they weren't, his current situation wouldn't change. For two days now his greeting sat unread in his parents' chat. Kian sighed and pocketed his phone.

"Hey Robin," Kian turned his attention to his dear friend who was lying unconscious on the hospital bed. "Can't believe you're all alone on Chuseok. Looks like your brother and parents left you here all alone, huh?" He teased. "Well fear not, I'm here. Cause I'm the best bro there is!" Kian took the washcloth by the bedside and began wiping Robin's face gently. "Ya know, if someone told me I'd be this diligent a year ago, I'd laugh in their face. And probably kick their ass too." Spending most of his free time at the hospital, changing and wiping his friend down when the nurses were too overworked to properly care for their neglected patients... rambling and complaining and shit talking his boring life 24/7 because Kian knew Robin was still in there somewhere, lost in that big brain of his, and he needed entertainment because otherwise he would die of boredom. Even Kian was surprised by how much he had grown. But it was natural, wasn't it? He just didn't want to miss the moment Robin finally opened his eyes.

For Kian, today was just like any other day. He drove to the hospital as soon as he was free. Ranted and raved about his asshole roommate and back-busting schedule. After the sun set, his rambling somehow transitioned into reminiscing about their past. The good old days. Kian wished he had a time machine so he could go back and undo all his regrets.

"Remember when you caught me smoking outside the gymnasium--man, the look on your face. I really thought I was a dead man. I mean, we both know you can't do shit to me strength wise. But somehow I was still scared."

"...I turned my life around because of you, you know?" He confessed. "If it wasn't for you... who knows where I'd be. Maybe dead in a ditch somewhere. I know you’ll deny it, but its true. I owe you my life.” Kian sighed and ran his hand down his face.

“So why’d you have to go and get yourself into this state while I was gone, huh?" Anger and grief crept into Kian's voice. He tried to stay positive for Robin, but Kian always felt the most vulnerable in the dead of night, the most out of control. "Well, I’m back now, I came back for you, so why don’t you wake up?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Robin’s finger twitched. Kian’s eyes widened into saucers. Was he seeing things? He glanced up and his stomach dropped. Tear tracks rolled down Robin's eyes. Kian cursed and quickly wiped Robin’s tears away. Regret and self-loathing took root in his heart. His friend was already in this state. How could he add to his torment?

“Hey, I was kidding, okay? I didn’t mean what I said. I did mean the 'wake up' part, though. If you don’t wake up I’m gonna kick you ass.” 

Suddenly Kian noticed a noise behind him. He turned around only to be greeted by the very same face of the man who was teetering on the edge between life and death.

"Rowon?" As soon as he noticed the other man, a conflicting sense of tension and soothing familiarity washed over him. He used to differentiate the twins so easily back in the day. Ironically nowadays when it should have been impossible to mistake one for the other, Kian was finding it harder and harder to tell them apart. “What are you doing here? Where’s auntie and uncle? Aren’t you celebrating Chuseok with them?”

@rowonlgc

[wtylas]

actually horrible day in ap environmental science today

(content warning in tags for description of animal death)

[onecanonlife]

In which Tommy has a nightmare, and enderwalk!Ranboo is of the opinion that grass blocks make everything better.

(word count: 1,413)

----------

Tommy jolts out of a nightmare that he doesn’t want to remember, and a few seconds later, finds himself hyperventilating outside on the grass.

It’s not on, is what it is. He hardly asked for this, for these awful dreams and this inability to sleep for more than a few hours at a time at best, for this creeping certainty that Dream is breaking out, is going to come for him, and that it’s only a matter of time before something awful happens. He didn’t ask for any of this, but he has it, and he’s not moving out of his house, because that would feel like a concession, but on nights like these he wakes up and the dirt walls press in around him and he can’t breathe, and it is completely and utterly the worst.

So. Outside. Grass. Hyperventilating.

Calming himself down is old hat, by now. He figured out how to do it a long time ago, around the time when he realized that there wasn’t going to be anyone holding his hand anymore, that he was well and truly on his own, without a friend in the world. Other than—but no, he doesn’t go there. He knows better, now, even though his brain still tries to play tricks on him sometimes, tries to convince him that Dream is the only one who actually has his best interests at heart.

The point is, he knows how to do this. He’s used to it. And frankly, he’s glad that he is, glad that he can do this on his own, because he doesn’t want anyone else around him when he’s like this. Doesn’t want anyone else to see, doesn’t want anyone else to know that this happens, doesn’t want anyone else to be able to point at him and go, look, the great TommyInnit brought low.

So when he regulates his breaths and swipes the tears from his face and unclenches his fingers knuckle by knuckle, he looks up and most definitely does not expect anyone to be crouched in front of him. When he sees that there is, he scrabbles backward and lets out an incredibly manly scream, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for it, because what the fuck?

“Holy shit,” he wheezes, “holy shit, you can’t just—” And has to stop, because it’s not just any weird crouching person. It’s his fucking—what’s the word for when a very irritating and terrible person marries your best friend? What’s the title for that? Annoyance-in-law?

In any case, it’s Ranboo.

“What,” he says, “the shit are you doing?”

Ranboo makes a sound that is not words at all. In fact, it sounds very similar to an enderman vwoop, which, alright, the guy’s half enderman, that checks out. Except, his eyes are also purple, and he looks rather taller than he normally does, even crouching down, so something is weird here. Something is very, very weird.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Go and, go and raise your shitty child or something. Sing ‘im a lullaby. Go on.”

He makes shooing noises with his hands, like one might do to a dog, or a persistent crow. Ranboo tilts his head very slowly, like a complete fucking weirdo, and then rises in one fluid motion, and goes walking off somewhere. Tommy stares after him, because he hadn’t really expected that to work. But alright, he’ll take it.

“That’s right,” he mutters. “Just fucking, fucking leave, go on.” He stares down at the grass, running a shaking hand through his hair. He is, maybe, not quite as recovered as he’d like. He’s usually not, after the initial panic, usually can’t make himself relax until the sun has crested the horizon and the sky has begun to lighten. He’s ruined for sleep tonight, that’s for sure.

But it’s alright. It’s alright, he’s used to it. He can do it. He can do this. He’s a big fucking man, and he can survive on a few hours of sleep a night, and he can avoid looking at himself in the mirror and remembering another face, eyebags just as dark, hair just as wild, eyes only slightly more desperate. He doesn’t have to remember things. Not if he doesn’t want to. He’s great at not remembering things, him.

Footsteps. He jerks, looks up again, and Ranboo is standing over him, and why is he so fucking tall?

Ranboo makes another vwooping sound. And then a little trill, almost like a bird, if a bird gargled gravel and then turned into an eldritch monstrosity. He crouches again, and then holds out his hands, and there is something in them, something that he is offering him, and—

Tommy squints. It’s a grass block.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” he asks.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Could you just stop being so fucking weird?” he demands. “For five minutes? I don’t think that’s too much to ask, really. God, you’re just. The worst.”

Ranboo shifts a bit closer, still holding out the grass block. Like he wants him to take it.

“I’m not taking your stupid block,” Tommy says, and accepts it.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Why would you even—” he says, burrowing his fingers into the dirt. A bit of it crumbles to the ground. He doesn’t understand how endermen manage to do this, keep these blocks in perfect shape, grass and all. “Why would you even give me this? What are you trying to pull on me, eh? It won’t work. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, pal. You’re up to something. Why are your eyes all purple?”

Ranboo vwoops.

And then—Tommy remembers something. Something he wasn’t particularly trying to remember, and usually, that’s not such a great thing, but it’s not so bad this time. Because this memory is from just a couple of weeks ago, in Snowchester, one of those times that he was trying to hang out with Tubbo, but Ranboo was just there and wouldn’t leave, and Tubbo wouldn’t make him leave, so Tommy spent the entire time being vaguely pissed off. And he was trying not to pay attention to Ranboo, really, he was, except he remembers him saying something about how he gets anxious, and how holding blocks of things and putting them down places helps him. At the time, he made a point of not acknowledging him, because Tommy’s not an idiot. He knew what he was trying to do, and he didn’t appreciate it.

But—

He stares at the block in his hands. And then back at Ranboo.

He wants to be angry, at the idea, at the presumption, because who the fuck does Ranboo think he is, trying to patronize him like this? But Ranboo keeps up his soft warbles, and he finds his eyes filling with tears instead.

“Are you,” he says, and his voice is not choked, it’s not, “are you trying to help me?”

Ranboo vwoops. Chirps. And then reaches out, slowly enough that Tommy doesn’t feel the urge to flinch, and runs gentle clawed fingers through his hair.

“Oh,” Tommy says. And doesn’t lean into the touch. He doesn’t. But if, hypothetically, he does, that’s between him and Prime on high. Or at least, it would be, if all his muscles didn’t go lax a few seconds later, and if he didn’t accidentally on purpose tip forward against Ranboo’s chest.

The dirt slips through his fingers. But that’s alright, because one of Ranboo’s arms wraps around him, and the other keeps carding through his hair, like Wilbur used to do when they were younger and things were better and they were two halves of a whole rather than puzzle pieces that got bent out of shape. The way his head is, he can feel vibrations running though Ranboo’s chest, like the purr of a cat, and it’s going to lull him to sleep if he’s not careful.

He can’t let that happen. He has more dignity than that.

Except he’s very tired. And Ranboo is clearly—sleepwalking, or something. Not all there in the head at the moment. So maybe he won’t remember this in the morning, if Tommy makes sure to wake up first. And that would be alright.

“You’re still terrible,” he mumbles, but the words are slurred, and Ranboo’s arms are very warm and comforting, and he’s drifting. He can feel it.

So he lets himself. Ranboo’s warbles follow him into sleep, and he dreams of stars.

[heroloverangel]

Delicate

This is technically a sequel to last year’s Dad Mirio fic but can be read on its own! Everyone’s favorite Wholesome Dilf continues to live rent-free in my brain.

“I miss you soooo much,” Mirio says for the fifth time in the past twenty minutes. You give him a comforting smile from your side of the screen, you know how he feels. Your husband’s been gone for three days now helping with a disaster in Osaka, and he probably won’t be home for the rest of the week. It’s hard being married to one of Japan’s top heroes, you think to yourself. You wish you could be there with him, putting your training to good use where it’s needed, but your current assignment is too important to ignore. It’s as if he can read your mind from the other side of the country. “How’s my buddy doing?”

You smile and tilt your camera down to show off your heavy stomach. At eight months pregnant, you’re sidelined from hero work no matter what the crisis is. “He’s alright,” you confirm. “I think he’s bored without you around, though.” He lets out a little whine that’s almost heartbreaking; it’s obvious where he’d rather be right now. You take pity on him and drop the phone level with your belly to give him a better view. 

“Hey buddy,” he coos. “I promise, I’ll finish as fast as I can so I can come home to you and Mama soon.” You feel movement inside you as he talks. You don’t know how good your baby’s hearing is, especially through the video chat, but you’re sure that he’s reacting to his father’s familiar voice. “I can’t wait to get back and feel how strong you’re kicking in there. I bet you’re driving Mama crazy!” You relax further into your pillows and let him babble on to your bump about his day saving civilians and clearing out rubble, only a little lonely when you look over at the empty half of your bed. You really do miss him, your house is far too quiet and calm without his usual energy filling it.

You yawn after a few more minutes and glance at the time. “Sorry, it’s getting kinda late. Would you mind if we called it a night for now?”

He smiles, but you can tell that he’s trying to hide his disappointment. “No problem, I know you need your sleep. We’ll talk again tomorrow, okay?” You agree and tell your husband you love him before hanging up the phone and settling in for bed. You’re tired, but you’ve gotten too comfortable with him sleeping beside you and it takes awhile to fall asleep on your own.

You spend the next morning balancing your laptop over your swollen belly while you browse through maternity clothes. There’s a local shop that promises same-day delivery, and you treat yourself to a few things for your last month. You read through your email, a magazine wants a quick interview for an article about hero families and you’re happy to answer their questions. It’s hard to move too much in your condition, but you make sure to do the prenatal exercises your doctor recommended and then have a nice long shower. Your new clothes arrive and you leave them on the dresser for now while you eat lunch and call your family. It still seems too quiet in the house without Mirio, and you’re getting bored when your phone finally rings and your face lights up at his name.

“Hey sweetheart! I’ve got a surprise for you!”

You can hear the smile in his voice and it warms your heart. “Is it dinner? I think somebody in here’s really craving steak tonight.”

He laughs. “You’ll see. Just have a seat on the couch and close your eyes for a second, okay?”

This isn’t the weirdest thing he’s requested over the phone, and you obey. “Alright, they’re closed. What are you planning, Lemillion?”

“You can open your eyes in three...two...one…” his voice disappears from the phone, all you hear is the background noise of birds chirping.

“Mirio?” Your eyes are still closed.

“SURPRISE!” 

You jump in shock and drop your phone, your eyes flying open. He’s standing in front of you with the biggest grin on his face, completely naked. It takes you a second to realize he must have phased through the front door to surprise you. You struggle to stand but fail, and he has to pull you up himself into his arms for a deep kiss. “You’re home early! How’d you manage that?”

“The others knew how much I wanted to get home, with you being pregnant and all, and everybody worked extra hard to cover for me so I could leave first.” You owe every single one of them a thank you gift. “Boy, that Uravity is amazing with rescue work!” Oh, you owe her twice as much after this.

“I’m glad you’re home,” you sigh happily. Your husband drops to his knees in front of you and pushes your shirt up to kiss your stomach, rubbing his hand where he feels a faint kick.

“Me too. I missed our family so much.” His arms wrap around you and he rests his head against your middle. You run your fingers through his hair, both of you taking a minute to relish your little reunion. It’s only been a few days, but it was more than enough to make you homesick for each other.

He stands back up after a bit and you head for the hallway. “You should go grab your phone off the porch and take a shower. I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you too, when you’re done.” He’s happy to obey and you follow him down the hall, pausing at the front door then into the bedroom. You wait for the bathroom door to shut and then spring into action as fast as you can. You clothes come off; you kick them under the bed instead of wasting precious time trying to pick them off the floor. 

You reach for the new clothes on the dresser and find the outfit you’d picked for his welcome home gift. The bra is made out of soft white lace so flimsy it looks like it’ll tear if you breathe too hard. It ties closed with a ribbon in the front and your clumsy fingers finally form a decent bow on the third try. A skirt attaches beneath the cups and just skims your thighs, the two halves of it parted to show off your obvious pregnancy. You’re lucky that the matching underwear ties on the sides with more ribbon; you’re not sure you’d be able to get them on without five minutes of struggling if you had to step into them. 

You look at yourself in the mirror and adjust the skirt of your lingerie. Despite the sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination, you look sweet. Innocent. Delicate. A grin spreads across your face; it’s perfect.

You get dressed just in time; you hear the shower turn off and the door opens a second later. “There, all clean and-” Mirio freezes at the sight of you and you see his fingers twitch against the towel wrapped around his waist. “Oh, wow. You look...just, wow.” He’s crossed the room faster than you can react, strong arms wrapping you in a tight, warm hug. “You’re so gorgeous like this, babe.”

You lean into his body; you’ve missed this while he was gone. “Well, it’ll be awhile before we can do this again. I figured we should really enjoy ourselves while we still can.” He nods and gives you a surprisingly gentle kiss. You can tell he’s holding back his strength for your benefit and the knowledge makes your heart flutter.

Mirio recovers from his surprise quickly and returns to his usual unstoppable energy. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, I promise!” His bigger hand is warm around yours as he guides you to your bed, losing his towel in the process. You don’t hide your staring; his body is gorgeous after so many years of training and you could look at him for hours. He sits back against the headboard and carefully brings you with him to straddle his lap, and you feel his cock already growing hard against your thigh. “We’ll take it easy,” he promises. “I know we have to be a little more gentle now since you’re so big-” You stare down at Mirio silently, but he continues. “What? You are big, that’s a good thing. You’re growing our baby in there, he needs all that room!” You just shake your head; you can’t really feel annoyed when he’s this sweet.

He looks up at you with pure affection written all over his face and leans into your touch as you run your fingers through his damp hair. “How can you be this buff and this adorable?” It’s not the first time you’ve asked as much, and every time he laughs you off with a faint blush on his cheeks. You lean in for another kiss while his hands move from your hips over your ribs to the front of your slip.

“This is so pretty, you should keep it on.” He gives your chest a squeeze and you whine, too sensitive from the hormones wrecking havoc on your body. You knew your breasts were going to get bigger, but they’ve turned out to be overachievers and you’ve jumped up two cup sizes already. “They’re still really sore, huh?” You nod and he offers you a comforting smile as he plays with the bow before finally tugging it open. Your nipples are already hard, and you don’t miss how he licks his lips when his thumb brushes over one. “I could help you with that, if you want.”

“Mirio…” You love your husband and all his enthusiasm, but you’re well aware that he can be a little too eager and get carried away. He’s being careful now as his fingers trace against your warm skin, his touch barely teasing you. He pulls you closer; you can feel the smile on his lips as he leans into your neck. He follows your pulse, down your collarbone to leave kisses at the swell of your breast and you sigh. “Okay,” you agree. “Just remember to-”

“I know, be gentle. Don’t worry babe, I’m gonna take good care of you.” He pushes your lingerie out of the way to get a better view at your heavy chest and appreciates the sight of it. “Man, our kid’s not gonna be lacking on calcium, is he?”

“I love you, please stop talking.” He laughs but obeys, his tongue flicking over your nipple and making you squirm in his arms. He does it a few times and you let out a little gasp when he takes you into his mouth. “Go easy,” you remind him, but he’s already distracted with his task. You asked your doctor about doing this before and were told it was perfectly fine, but you can’t quite shake the thought that it’s a little weird as Mirio begins to suck at your tender nipple.

You’ve tried this before, but every time he’s been too rough in his excitement and you’ve had to yank his head away from you in pain. Tonight though, he’s trying his best and after a few seconds of discomfort there’s an unfamiliar tingle deep in your breast as your body responds to his stimulation. “It feels weird,” you groan, but your fingers thread into his hair so he won’t pull away. “It’s not bad, just weird.” You’re not entirely sure you like what he’s doing, but you’re willing to continue until you figure it out. His tongue brushes over you with a slightly different motion, and something in you clicks into place. “Can you do that again? I think I liked that.”

His laughter is muffled but still obvious and you can feel the smile against your skin. Mirio’s happy to assist, one strong hand settling on your back to keep you steady. It wasn’t a mistake; he repeats his movements and you realize that it feels good. It feels really good, you have to admit, as his eyes slip closed so he can focus entirely on pleasing you like this. You hold him tight to your body, fingers running through his messy hair while you enjoy the affection so happily given. You’re still sensitive though, and after a few more minutes you start to get overwhelmed and have to pull him away.

“It tastes good.” His grin is huge as he licks his lips. “It’s sweet, just like the rest of you.” You’d roll your eyes if he wasn’t so cute. He gives your breast a gentle squeeze and earns another whimper from you, then turns his attention to the other one. “Don’t want this side feeling left out, right? Lucky I’m here to take care of everything!” Your heart skips a beat, you’re so in love with this silly, wonderful idiot. You don’t get a chance to respond, once his mouth is back on you it’s hard to do anything besides pant and whine for him.

You squirm against him, his dick pressing against your thigh and your panties doing very little to hide how much you’re loving this. “Miriooo,” you moan, and the look in his eyes is nothing but pure happiness that makes you melt. “You always take good care of me,” you coo, reaching down to stroke his cock lightly. “You’re so good to me, honey.” He pulls you closer and releases your chest to look up and meet your eyes.

“Babe, I’m just giving you what you deserve. You’re literally making a brand new, little person in there. If that’s not worth being extra nice, I don’t know what is.” He really has no idea how perfect he is. His thumb brushes over your nipple and your body is so sensitive now it makes you shudder. “Alright now?”

You stop for a second to consider. Your breasts do feel a bit lighter, there’s less pressure weighing down on you after his help. “Yeah, thanks. You’re the best, really.”

He brushes off your compliment in favor of pulling at the strings holding your underwear together. “Just doing my job, miss.” He groans at the sight of you fully naked and traces a finger along the lips of your cunt. You hadn’t noticed just how wet you were getting as he’d worked on your nipples, but now two of his fingers slip inside you with no effort. “I love you so much,” he says with another kiss.

You buck into his hand mindlessly, too eager for his touch after only a few days. You want to hold off and come with his dick buried inside you, but you can’t deny yourself when you’re this needy already. “I want it,” you whine pitifully.

His other hand gives your hip a reassuring squeeze. “I know, baby. You can have whatever you want, just tell me.” His thumb swirls over your clit and he doesn’t miss the jolt that runs down your body. “Right there, huh? My pretty little wife wants me to make her come?” His smirk is playful and there’s a glint of mischief in those friendly eyes.

“Mirio, please.” Hearing him talk like that does something to you and you hide your face in the crook of his neck.

His hand moves faster and your pussy clenches tight around his fingers. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Just let yourself go for me.” His voice is so warm and soothing, you can’t resist. Your orgasm is marked with desperate whispers in his ear as his hand moves gently between your thighs to urge you on. “That’s it, honey. You’re so good, I want more of you.”

It takes you a minute to calm down before you’re able to pry your sweaty face away from his shoulder. His fingers leave you aching to be filled again, and you swallow hard when you watch him bring them to his mouth to lick them clean. 

“That’s my girl,” he smiles like the sun and you look away, almost embarrassed by the affection between you two. You can’t see anything past your swollen belly, but you can feel his thick cock ready for a turn. “Are you up for more? It’s fine if you need to wait-”

You fumble blindly for his cock until the tip presses just outside your cunt. “I want you inside me. Here, Mirio. Your pretty little wife wants to make you come.” The blush spreading across his face at your words is a special reward of its own. His hips thrust upward to enter you while he slowly pulls you down to meet him, and your mouth falls open in a long moan. “Fuck, Mirio. We’ll have to wait a couple weeks after he’s born and it’s gonna suck so bad.”

He hasn’t put much thought into this fact and you can practically see the gears in his head turning. “Well then, I guess we’d better make it count while we still have the chance,” he says finally. He’s always so much stronger than you, even when you’re not in such a delicate condition, and easily sets a steady pace moving you up and down his dick. You cling to his shoulders to steady yourself as you ride him, pressing your tongue into hs mouth to devour his sounds. This may be the peak of happiness, with your sweet husband pounding away inside your excited pussy, showering you with compliments about how great you are and how perfect your little family is going to be. “And once he gets a little older, we can start working on his siblings!”

Your hips falter in their rhythm at the suggestion. “S-siblings? Already?”

He grins back at you. “Of course! We need five or six, at least!”

“Five or six…” you repeat, suddenly distracted by the thought of doing this another half-dozen times. You don’t know why you’re surprised, it’d be more of a shock if he didn’t have infinite love to share. The idea doesn’t bother you, and you find yourself returning his smile with a smirk of your own. “You really wanna fill me up that much, Lemillion?”

You’re not expecting his thrusts to speed up so much or for him to pull you down so hard you’re gasping for air. “God, babe. So much. I think about it like, all the time now. You have no idea.” He stops to kiss you again, and your cunt squeezes hard around him. “I can take more time off of work,” Mirio insists mindlessly, getting far too ahead of himself. “I bet I can hold so many babies at once.”

You laugh, he’s so ridiculous sometimes. “Let’s just focus on this one for awhile, okay?” He nods, trailing his lips down your throat to feel how fast your pulse is racing for him. You can feel another orgasm building, and that he isn’t far behind. You were only apart for three days but it seems like far too long. “You’re really, really the best.”

He cups your sweaty face in one hand, the look in his eyes so soft and loving it takes your breath away. There aren’t enough words to describe how much you love him right now, and clearly it’s the same for him. Wordlessly he releases you and drags his hand down your body, stopping to tweak your nipples and making you cry out. His fingers drop to rub firmly against your clit, and your back goes rigid. “Miri-ohh. Just like that, I’m gonna...there, fuck.” You clamp down hard on his cock with a loud moan and he holds you tight, supporting your overworked body while you come. “Here,” your voice is ragged. “Your turn, I know you’re dying to come inside me.”

“You’re amazing, honey.” That last compliment is all he gets out before his pace goes sloppy and you feel him flooding your pussy with a low groan. “You’re so amazing.” 

You cling to him while he gradually wears himself out and stay wrapped up in his arms for the next few minutes. Eventually, there’s a firm kick in your belly that informs you that someone noticed all your movement and he’s not happy about it. Both of you laugh as you separate; you flop down on the bed while Mirio cleans you up and finds you a comfy, oversized shirt and fresh panties to wear. It’s still fairly early, and you won’t be tired enough to sleep for a few hours.

“Now that was a welcome home gift. You should just wear that around the house until you have the baby, it looks really great on you.”

You ruffle his messy hair. “I don’t think it would survive the entire month around you,” you tease. You stretch your arms above your head and feel a grumble in your stomach. “So, the surprise wasn’t steak for dinner tonight?”

He’s in too good of a mood to even think of denying you. “It is now!” He’s already fumbling for his phone to look up menus. “Whatever you wanna eat, just say the word!”

Sometimes you wonder how you ever got so lucky.

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm

Masterlist here 

AO3 link here

Author’s Note: And we’re at the penultimate chapter! Am rly excited to hear what you guys think - so please, drop me an ask, a note, a comment, anything!!! Thank you for following this fic with me <3

He stays away from her over the next two weeks. He still picks Shino up from childcare - he’s never leaving his little girl again - but takes Osamu’s advice to duck into the kitchen the minute he hears the bell chime to mark her entrance into the shop. 

‘Is everything alright with Atsumu?’ he hears her ask Osamu after a week of radio silence from him. 

He imagines Osamu just shrugs, because his twin later gives him a look of askance that he ignores. 

‘Meet me on Sunday afternoon? Was hoping to have a quick chat and pass something over to you since my arm is out of its sling.Osamu agreed to take Shino for a couple of hours, so don’t worry about her’, he texts her. 

‘Fine’, she texts back. ‘Works for me’. 

‘Hey’, he greets her as she opens the door, fighting the impulse to scruff his shoes into the ground like a nervous schoolboy on his first date. 

‘Hey yourself’, she responds without heat, slipping on her shoes. ‘Shall we?’ 

He nods, turning on his heel and she follows suit, their footfalls matching in pace, though they angle their bodies to avoid each other’s gaze in the lift. They do not exchange a single word until they reach the car park, and he leads her past all the cars to a dim corner, lit by a single flickering electric bulb.  

‘Atsumu - what’s this?’ she says, staring uncomprehendingly at the motorbike parked in front of her, the exact replica of the bike she sold when she got pregnant with Shino, albeit updated with a shining coat of new paint and the latest modifications, top of the line. 

‘Surprise?’ he tells her, unable to hide a grin when she runs a hand reverently over the seat of the bike. 

‘I can’t accept this, ‘Tsumu. It’s too much’, she demurs but he knows she’s fallen in love when she’s unable to tear her eyes away from the bike.

‘Sure ya can! I registered it under yer name, and paid for the parking fees for the year, and look! It even comes with a helmet!’, he assures her, crossing his fingers behind his back. ‘Ya can ride it whenever ya have time to yerself - I’ll make sure I or ‘Samu will take Shino-chan for a couple hours every weekend so ya can go break some speed limits on the bike!’ 

‘This isn’t a bribe, right? Or some attempt to trick me into agreeing into something I don’t want to do?’ she asks him suspiciously. 

‘No - no tricks, I swear on my life. Look - I’ve signed the divorce papers, they’re in my bag. I just wanted to give ya the bike as a partin' gift’, he says, keeping his voice deliberately light. 

She stares at him, searching his face for any sign of duplicity, but he holds her gaze until she turns away, satisfied. 

‘You never do anything by halves, do you ‘Tsumu? But thank you anyway’, she laughs breathily and his heart lurches to a start when he sees her slowly start to glow whilst fussing over the bike, exclaiming to herself as she admires the paint job and the extra compartments he’d gotten the mechanic to install. 

Watching her brings back memories of their adventures together before Shino came along. She’d pick him up for a ride to the outskirts of Osaka on their rare days off, in search for a spot to lay their picnic mat down and shoot the breeze. They’d never found that perfect picnic spot, but that just meant that there were more places to explore, more roads to traverse, more adventures for them to go on. That’d all stopped once Shino came along, and he wonders if they wouldn’t be in such a state if he’d put in more effort to carve out more time for them.   

And even before that - there was the time she’d surprised him by turning up in Kobe for one of his matches, sweeping him away from his confused teammates right after the match to celebrate over egg mayo sandwiches at 7-11. He suspects that was the day he’d fallen in love with her, half realising that she was probably the only person crazy enough to burn hours on the road on the back her rusty old bike right after an exam, just to stay up all night sitting cross-legged in a dim combini with mayo in her hair, listening to him ramble about his volleyball match. 

Wow. 'Samu's right. Even the reason he fell in love with her was fucking selfish. 

‘Hey ‘Tsumu’, he hears her say after a while and he looks up. ‘Wanna go for a ride?’ she asks brightly, twirling the keys around her finger. 

‘Huh?’ he responds, genuinely perplexed. 

‘A ride, you idiot. Don’t you want to find out how the bike feels on the road, especially since you’re the one who paid for it?’ 

‘Sure’, he says, a little lost - but then again she’s always found ways to keep him on his toes. ‘But there’s only one helmet’. 

‘I still have my old one upstairs. Give me a second so I can get it!’ she rushes off, a spring in her step he’s sorely missed seeing and despite the ache in his heart, he smiles. 

His smile vanishes the moment she kicks the bike full throttle and hurtles through weekend Osaka traffic at breakneck speed, making such sharp turns he almost falls off the bike if he weren’t already clutching her waist for dear life. ‘Oi! Look out!’ he yelps, as she weaves her way through narrow gaps between cars, seemingly deaf to the horns of outraged drivers behind her - and fuck he wants to puke but can’t because there’s no way that doesn’t end badly for him. 

‘Slow down, you fuckin' maniac’, he manages to shout when his stomach gives itself up for dead, but the wind swallows his words and she only whoops in response. The neon city lights blur into a mess of colours and he runs through his repertoire of curse words. He swears she’s evil - it’s not enough that she’s killed him once by divorcing him, her insane riding is going to make sure he’s doubly dead.

They burst onto the highway in a squeal of tires, the city skyline fading into a sea of lights, and they’re both so focused on the road ahead of them, well – she is, at least, he’s trying his level best to stay on his seat - that neither of them notice the dark clouds gathering above until the first splatter of raindrops on the road. 

The sky is threatening enough to make her swerve off the highway into a quiet neighbourhood, screeching to a halt at the nearest park with an empty shelter large enough to fit both of them. They jump off the bike, helmets dangling over their arm, and she catches hold of his hand as they splash their way through muddy puddles in a bid to escape the incoming storm. 

‘That was amazing!’ she laughs when they reach shelter, twirling on the tips of her feet, cheeks flushed pink with excitement, looking so happy and bright and alive -  like a bird spreading its wings to fly high in the sky, the way she used to be before their marriage broke her wings and shackled her to the ground. 

If only he hadn’t been blinded by the false allure of his dreams to appreciate what was right in front of him - a woman bold enough to whisk him away from the clutches of deranged fans on the back of a motorbike, fierce enough for Osamu to assign her to deal with his bullshit - and most of all, crazy enough to marry and have a child with him. And he knows she isn’t his, not anymore, but he's a greedy, selfish man, and he wants her one last time, so he throws his jacket over her shoulders as a pretext for drawing her close to him, slanting his mouth gently over hers. 

She stills for a second, and he’s about to pull away when she melts into him, tilting her chin up to grant him greater access to her lips. An unexpected heat coils in his stomach when she tangles her fingers in his hair, scraping her nails against his scalp, a thrill running down his spine as he loses himself in her familiar softness and warmth and groans.

She gasps, jerking away from him, tracing her bruised lips with her fingers, looking up at him with wide eyes.

‘Tsumu’, she begins to say, but he cuts her off, frantic with worry that he’s scared her off before he’s had the chance to say his piece. 

‘I’m sorry - I know I shouldn’t have but I just...can I just say what I meant to say to ya before this?’ he asks, banking on the fact that she hasn’t slapped him yet, and to his relief, she nods. 

‘I’ve thought about what ya said, and yer right -  I’ve taken so much from ya I don’t deserve to ask ya for anything else, not when I should be the one making it up to ya for the rest of my life,’ he says, his heart cracking beneath his ribs (so it’s true, a heart can actually break) – because he knows now she’s lost to him, has been the second he'd forsaken his vows and stormed out of her life, but he gulps a breath to calm his pulse, forcing himself to continue on. 

‘All I want is for ya to be happy and free - and if signing these papers is the price I have to pay, I’ll do it for ya’. Then he draws the brown envelope from his bag, holding it out to her with shaking hands. 

She makes no move to take it from him. 

‘Do you even love me, ‘Tsumu?’ she asks, her voice feather light, a wisp in the wind. ‘Be honest with me, you don’t have to lie’.

There’s a searing pain in his chest and he closes his eyes, losing himself to the undercurrent of regret pulsing in his mind. 

‘I do’, he manages to choke out, peeling aside the rotting layers of vanity and greed and selfishness and pride to flay his chest open to present his heart to her, in all its bleeding, broken glory. 

‘Yer everythin’ I could’ve ever asked for, and it’s killin’ me to watch you walk away - but I deserve it cos I’m a fuckin’ idiot for not realisin’ that sooner, and ya have no idea how fuckin’ sorry I am for hurting ya so badly and making you think that I don’t love ya - because I do, gods, I do, I love ya so goddamned much.’

‘Does our marriage mean that much to you?’ she stares at him, her eyes clouded with an emotion he can’t make out. 

‘Yes’, he says simply, his response both a confession and a prayer. He makes no move to touch her, fearful that any misstep might tip them both over the edge, the storm of emotions swirling within him already threatening to swallow him whole. 

‘Then ask me again, ‘Tsumu’ she whispers, her fists clenched, trembling by her side.    

He blinks at her, but his confusion morphs into elated disbelief when she takes the brown envelope from him and rips it cleanly in half. 

Oh. 

‘Ask me again, ‘Tsumu’, she repeats, the clouds in her eyes clearing into pools of light. He wonders if it mirrors the rush of warmth and love and most of all - hope, overflowing in his heart. 

‘Wanna try jumping off a cliff again?’ he asks, voice shaking, echoing the request he made of her years ago.

She steps forward into his waiting arms, her smile like golden sunlight spilling through grey rain.  

‘Only if you promise to jump with me’, she says softly against his chest. 

He catches her forgiveness desperately in his hands, and seals his promise with his lips. 

[nugnthopkns]

i’ll tell you i was wrong if you dance with me

word count: 3.3k

warnings: explicit fem!reader, slightly unhealthy relationship moment (lack of communication), mention of infidelity, cursing, alcohol consumption, a fair bit of angst

recommended listening: fred astaire | adam brock

a/n: communicate with your partners!!! also yeah this is the song from lady bird. it’s a banger

This seriously isn’t happening. 

You never fight with Travis. Communication comes easy between the two of you, but you also make it a priority to talk about your feelings. It keeps things from boiling over; both of you are known to unleash wicked tempers on occasion and have found being direct stops issues from occuring. Arguments still occasionally happen, but they’re typically over trivial things like what movie to watch or where you’re spending the holidays. Travis apparently forgot about the fact you talk to each other about things. 

He’d been upset when he came home from practice, but you were pretty sure he was fine after he woke up from his pre-game nap. Knowing he’s a superstitious person and has a lot of pressure on him to put up points, you had made the choice not to ask about what was bothering him. Throwing off his routine could have detrimental consequences. Tonight's game is tighter than it should have been, but the Flyers come out on top. Travis spends a bit more time in the penalty box than you would have liked, but everyone was getting chippy by the start of the third period. Claude tries to talk to him on the bench but he gets shut down. Whatever Travis was upset about before is still clearly bothering him, and it’s affecting his game. 

You’re following Travis home from the game, and can tell he’s uptight from the way he’s gripping the steering wheel. As you wind through downtown Philadelphia you try and prepare yourself for any bomb that could drop. Chances are that when you reach your apartment things will explode. Maybe it’s nothing; Travis is fine and just wants to be a responsible driver for once. You pull into the free spot beside his car and see him walking towards the elevator, suit jacket balled up and tucked under his arm. This won’t be good. Trying to buy yourself some time, you take the stairs. Seven flights later you arrive outside your door; he left it unlocked, which gives you a sliver of hope things will be fine. 

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” you call into the darkness of the apartment. Your sneakers are left at the door and to retreat towards the bedroom, looking for a sign of life. You find one in the bathroom: the light is on. A gentle push on the door reveals your boyfriend is in the shower and ignoring you. 

“Trav?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, words muffled by him tossing his head back to rinse the shampoo of his hair. Apparently the shower isn’t as relaxing as he had hoped. 

You don’t bother to tread lightly, upset that he’s acting like a child. “You’re being an asshole. I get that you had a bad day, but you can’t take it out on me. I just want to help.”

Travis turns the water off suddenly. “Can’t help if you’re the problem,” he scoffs. 

His statement doesn’t make sense. You’ve done nothing out of the ordinary the past couple of days; nothing that would warrant the behaviour you’re receiving. “What do you mean?”

Shouldering passed you to exit the room, Travis doesn’t bother to respond. You’re beyond frustrated: partners in healthy relationships communicate, not show emotions like grade schoolers. “You’re not giving me the fucking silent treatment Travis. You gotta talk to me.” The bedroom is dark when you enter and you flick the overhead light on to see better.

“You really don’t know?”

“Of course I don’t know,” you seethe. “If I did know we wouldn’t be in this predicament because we’d be solving the issue.”

The glare you receive is sharp enough to cut stone. He pulls on a t-shirt, anger clear in the aggression he does it with. “Why did I have to find out from Carter that you’ve been getting coffee with your TA?”

You’re shocked. In no way is it what he thinks it is. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you sigh, upset that Travis would take someone else’s words at face value and not talk to you about it. 

“I’m dead fucking serious Y/N. You preach communication, but it looks as though you’re the one who hasn’t been doing enough talking.”

The room around you starts to spin. You can’t comprehend what he’s insinuating. “Wait, you think I’m cheating on you?” you ask. There has been a gross miscommunication error somewhere; never in a million years would you think of having an affair.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well what the fuck did you say?”

Travis tugs at the roots of his hair in frustration. He doesn’t answer immediately, pacing the length of the bed a few times. “I just–” he struggles to articulate his words. “I just said that you’re being a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? You’re standing here yelling at me because I didn’t voice my concerns, but you haven’t been talking to me about what’s going on in your life.” Travis’ tone is sharp, and it stings. 

It’s your turn to show how upset you are. Your hands curl into fists at your side, and you squeeze your nails into your palms before releasing them. “I do tell you what goes on in my life Travis,” your breathing ragged as you try to not lose your cool. “I ran into my TA at the coffee shop yesterday, and he paid for my drink because my card wouldn’t work. Didn’t think it was breaking news, sorry I don’t send you every single fucking life update that happens. What’s gotten into you?”

“You could have been cheating!” 

“But I wasn’t!” you scream, no longing caring about keeping up appearances. You can’t believe Travis would think that. It hurts. “And I never would! You know this”

He turns his back to you, like it pains him to look at you, but you don’t understand why. You're not the one suggesting infidelity. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?” he seethes. 

“That’s all there is to say! There’s nothing to explain, no secret to uncover. I’m not in the wrong here.”

“And you think I am?”

You look at Travis like he has three heads. “Are you serious? You’re the one who’s so fucking upset over a situation that could have happened to literally anyone.” Your tone suggests that you’re exhausted with the conversation, and Travis gets the hint. 

He slinks towards the door, still visibly angry. “I’ll take the couch tonight,” he grits out before tightly gripping the doorknob and shutting the door with more force than needed. 

The bed doesn’t look appealing, full of much happier memories, but fighting with Travis has knocked any and all energy out of you. You gingerly pull back the covers and slip underneath. Tears trickle down your cheek as you toss and turn, trying to fall into some sort of slumber. However, your mind has other ideas, replaying the blowout. You can’t begin to understand why Travis is so bothered by the instance, and more importantly why it caused him to disregard a fundamental part of your relationship. There’s little movement from beyond the door, but you can hear the faint noise of a Johnny Cash record playing from the speakers in the living room. After hours of staring at the ceiling your eyes close and a fitful sleep follows. 

You might have gotten nine hours of sleep, but you wake up feeling exhausted. Fighting with anyone drains you, but fighting with Travis is especially terrible because it rarely happens. There doesn’t seem to be any movement from the other side of the door; maybe he’s still asleep. You refrain from heading into the kitchen, unsure of what will happen if you see him. After nearly twenty minutes you can’t wait any longer to start your day and pad into the main living space. It’s empty: no sign that Travis has been there for many hours. Guess you don’t have to immediately deal with the fallout of last night. 

A post-it note is tacked onto the fridge handle and your heart skips a beat. In Travis’ chicken scratch it reads I’ll see you at the gala tonight. We’ve got media all day and I won’t be back in time for us to go together. There’s no mention of the fight, and you can’t judge from a two sentence note whether or not he’s still pissed off. 

“Fuck,” you groan. “The gala.” Tonight’s the annual Flyers Give Back gala, and you’re expected to be in attendance. It’s not even a charity event; the organization is offering a chance for business men to chat up the players in hopes they continue to donate. You find things like these unbearable and tedious, but Travis does his best to make them enjoyable. Not knowing what page you’re on with him is going to be terrible. There’s a pretty good chance he’ll ignore you if he’s still upset. 

As if someone is reading your mind, the better halves group chat starts to explode. Everyone is chattering excitedly about tonight, and under normal circumstances you’d be excited to see them in such a relaxed setting. It’s been a while you’ve all hung out, but you can’t find yourself to contribute to the conversation. You mute the notifications and do your best to move on with your day. The rest of the morning is spent working on your thesis; mind numbing work that almost makes you forget about everything that happened in the past twenty-four hours. Once you’ve hit an acceptable word count for the day you shutdown your computer and make lunch. 

The grilled cheese sandwich you eat while watching a John Mulaney comedy special fulfills your appetite but doesn’t curb your dread. You decide to call your sister, hoping she can be a welcome distraction. Dialling her number you sink further into the couch cushions, wrapping yourself tightly with a blanket so that only your head is poking out. “What’s up?” she asks, and you hear her shuffle in the background, presumably to move somewhere more private. It isn’t normal for you to call her unannounced. 

You hold it together for approximately two seconds. The tears start and they don’t stop. Every emotion you’ve felt since getting home last night comes to the surface, and before you know it you’re sobbing into the receiver. 

“Woah, slow down,” she says. “Y/N, take some deep breaths.” When your breathing returns to a somewhat regular level she continues speaking. “What happened?”

It takes you nearly twenty minutes to tell the whole story because you’re so distraught. No detail is spared, and you go back much farther than is probably needed. You recount what happened after yesterday’s practice, pretty much the entire game, and the fight that followed. “I just don’t know what brought this on,” you sniffle. “We don’t fight, we talk about things. I’m not sure if I’m more upset at what he insinuated or at the fact he broke a cardinal rule.”

Your sister sighs, and you hear her breath fan in slight annoyance. You’re worked up about something kinda stupid, you know, but you can’t let it slide. “It’s probably a bit of both. So, what are you going to do?”

“What can I do? I know that we need to talk about what happened, but a public event is not the best place to do that. I also can’t not show up or ask Trav to ditch in order to figure this out. We have to be there.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it figured out then.”

You really don’t. “What happens if he ignores me the entire night?”

She laughs and tells you to not to anything stupid, and to take your mind off of things tells you a story about your nephew eating dirt. It does the trick; you’re momentarily distracted and forget about Travis. You talk for a while longer before she has to go. “Miles is crying, will you be okay if I let you go?”

It’s your turn to laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you insist. A glance at the clock tells you it’s time to start getting ready. “I’ve gotta shower and start the process. Beauty is time consuming you know.”

Against your better judgement you open your text messages to see if there’s anything from Travis. His text thread is the same as it was yesterday and you’re disappointed. You had hoped that maybe he’d get bored between interviews and check in. With no new notifications you exit out of the application and pull up a playlist you hope will brighten your mood. The steam from the shower relaxes your tense muscles and warms you up. It’s comforting in the way a cocoon is; you practically have to drag yourself out of the bathtub. 

Your bedroom is cold and doesn’t offer the same respite as the bathroom. The music continues to float in from the hallway, and you allow yourself to get lost in it. It’s been a while since you danced around your room; it worked to cure sadness when you were a teenager. Hopefully the magic hasn’t worn off. You flail your arms, not caring how silly you look since no one is here to see you anyways, and scream along at the top of your lungs. After a few songs you feel better and return to the task at hand. The dress code is labelled as ‘black tie’ on the invitation, but that isn’t what you’re worried about. You own a million dresses for situations like this after being with Travis for so long. You don’t know what he packed to wear, and there’s a decent chance you’ll be pushed together for photos. Clashing colours will look terrible.

A quick glance through his side of the closest leaves you no clues, so you decide to be as literal as possible. Black is a flattering colour and works well with every colour combination. There’s a jumpsuit hanging in the back that catches your eye and you think it’s the perfect choice. After pulling it on you move back into the bathroom to do your hair and makeup. Everything is natural and relaxed; once again for the sake of potential photos. The clock strikes on the hour and you realize it’s time to leave. A pair of heels are slipped on and you order an Uber before locking the apartment and heading to the lobby. You had thought about driving yourself, but on the occasion that things don’t end well with Travis you’ll probably have more than a couple of drinks. 

The entire way to the venue your leg bounces up and down. It’s been years since you’ve been this nervous about being around the team. You’ve been with Travis for a few seasons now, and the organization has become a second family to you. No one is going to know about the fight and you worry they’re going to talk about your solo arrival. The outside of the convention centre is sharply decorated, and your driver lets out a low whistle at the extravagance of it all. “Thank you so much,” you gush, and exit the car. Thankfully no photographers are set up outside, and you dart inside without being seen. 

Once in the main event space, you scan for the bar. There’s no sign of Travis, which should make you more relaxed but doesn’t. What if there was an accident on the way to the venue? You have no idea where he was all or who he came with. Overthinking distracts you from your original goal, leaving you standing aimlessly in the middle of the room. 

“You look like you might need one of these,” Ryanne chuckles, handing you a champagne flute. You gladly accept and down it in two gulps. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, eyes scanning to see if your boyfriend has made an appearance. 

She sees right through your facade of calm and wraps you in a tight hug. “What’s going on?”

For a second time today you explain what happened last night. There’s no judgement from Ryanne as there might have been from your sister because she understands. Dating a professional athlete isn’t easy; things like this happen much more frequently than you’d expect. Perhaps it’s all the time spent apart that makes the occasional lapse in communication so apparent. She listens quietly, full attention on you. To your credit you don’t cry this time, slightly more numb to the situation to due more time passing. It still hurts a tremendous amount. 

“He’ll come around,” Ryanne insists. “TK is a little moronic sometimes, but he’d never jeopardize his relationship with you. You’re quite literally the most important thing in his life.”

 “I know. I’m just upset because the whole thing could have been avoided.”

She offers you a sympathetic smile. “I know.” Ryanne links her arm through yours. “Let’s go find something to snack on.”

You spend most of the night with Ryanne, and occasionally Claude when he can get away from the hot-shot businessmen. Travis eventually came in, flanked by Nolan, but was immediately pulled into the politics of the night. The two of you occasionally sneak glances at each other and you tell he’s uncomfortable. You can only hope it isn’t because of your presence. It’s nearing eleven; the party has become a much more relaxed affair, and the DJ is playing sappy love songs in an attempt to get the media team some good photo ops. An intern asks the Giroux’s if they’ll dance for an instagram story and they both look hesitant. “Go on guys, I’ll be fine,” you reassure. It’s the subtle push they need to enjoy a quiet moment together. 

As if he can sense you’re lonely and feel out of place, Travis approaches you. It’s tentative, like he’s petrified you’ll turn him away, but he comes regardless. Drinks are in each of his hands and he extends one to you. When you don’t take it he sets it on the table behind you. “Hi,” he says sheepishly, fiddling with something in his pocket. 

“Hi Travis.” You’re determined not to let his presence crack your resolve; last night illuminated a big issue and it needed to be dealt with. It’s proving to be difficult because he bumps a shoulder against yours and all you can think of is kissing him senseless. 

The song changes to a Bruce Springsteen ballad, and you recognize it instantly. It played at the coffee shop on your first date with Travis all those years ago. One look at him tells you this isn’t an accident, that he had requested it specifically for the two of you. “Dance with me?”

You sigh deeply, looking him in the eyes. “Trav, this isn’t going to magically fix things.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he pleads. “I fucked up so bad last night because I was being an idiot. I wrote down everything I would do differently if I had a time machine, look.” A hand reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of paper filled with his nearly illegible print. “Just one dance, and then we can go home and talk about it like I should have suggested in the first place. Let me know we’re still okay.”

If you hadn’t been in public you’re sure Travis would have been in tears. It’s not necessarily a good look to cry in front of hundreds of sponsors. He has a reputation as the goofy boy who takes no shit to uphold. “You have a lot of talking ahead of you,” you say, and let him drag you onto the dance floor. Swaying in his arms you realize things are going to be just fine. Travis loves you and you love him; there’s nothing the two of you can’t work through. 

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

taglist: @jamiedrysdales​ @kiedhara​ @tortito​ if you want to be added shoot me an ask :)

[ga-yuu]

~Kurama~Main Story Chapter 21~

Before reading this story I suggest you read Kurama and Ibuki's past. Also I’m sorry for not putting any screenshots of the chapter, I accidently deleted it.

Chapter 20

*

*

*

-------Part 1-------

After bathing, we returned to the temple in the mountains and started preparing for bed. Kurama: "Sleep well tonight. We have to leave early, tomorrow." Yoshino: ".....Mm." (It's just the two of us in the same room....now, I'm starting to get nervous....) I started blushing as I recall our time at the lake. I lay down in the corner of the room and used my haori to cover up. Yoshino: "Doesn't Kurama ever sleep?" Kurama: "You know, right? Demons don't need sleep, unlike humans." Yoshino: "I see...." Kurama: "Why are you making that face?" (Ah......) Suddenly Kurama came to my side and kneeled down to turn my face towards him. Kurama: "Is that an invitation to sleep together? Or...is it a plea to make love to you." As soon as I heard those words, my heart started beating fast. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1. What if, it is.....(+4/+4) 2. I don't care.... 3. Not at all... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yoshino: "......What if, it is?" I was so excited that I almost forgot how to breathe and pretended to be calm... Kurama: "Then, I'll fill your head and body with more pleasure than you can possibly imagine." Yoshino: "You know what, forget it." Kurama: "Then what do you want? What are you thinking?" Kurama's fingers caress my cheek in a compassionate manner. (You're not teasing me, right.....?) The touch of his palm that has the power to kill me in an instant was terribly gentle. That's why my heart is beating faster and faster because I can't get rid of it. Yoshino: "I was just feeling anxious." Kurama: "Anxious of what?" Yoshino: "It's just....Kurama will be awake while I'm sleeping, right? So I was anxious about embarrassing myself in front of you when I'm asleep. Like, what if I sleep talk or snore loudly...?" Kurama: ".........." Yoshino: "Oh, you're probably thinking, 'What a load of rubbish,' aren't you?" A hint of dismay flashed across Kurama's face. Kurama: "Ohh, I see you've learned to read my thoughts." (I was right....) Yoshino: "Of course, I know that Kurama isn't interested in seeing me asleep....But even so, it's embarrassing to know that you were watching me sleep." Kurama: "Stupid woman." Yoshino: "Stupid...?" I lightly looked at Kurama. Kurama: "Why do you think I'd be more interested if you went to the trouble of saying so?" (Ehh...) Yoshino: "No no way." Kurama: "Don't worry. I'll tell you tomorrow if you were drooling or not." Yoshino: "Hey!!!" (Wow!!) He gently pushed me down to the bed when I tried getting up. Then, his big hand covered my eyes. Kurama: "Sleep now." Kurama's deep voice was gentle in the darkness created. Kurama: "What I see of you now will never swoon me. I've seen you scared, in tears and.....also you're sultry face when I play with you." (...What are you...) The embarrassment never went away, but the mystery was compelling. Yoshino: "Indeed, I have always been my true self to Kurama." Kurama: "You're the only woman I've ever known who could be so brazen in front of me."

-------Part 2-------

Kurama: "You're the only woman I've ever known who could be so brazen in front of me." Yoshino: "Hehe...really? But..." (I feel like I can express my feelings more honestly now that I can't see Kurama's face.) Yoshino: "I just couldn't complete with Kurama, who was so much stronger and different than me. First I didn't want to be killed, then I wanted to be recognized.....and finally, I wanted to be equal." Kurama: "-----I see." Yoshino: "Mm....." I felt Kurama's other hand gently stroking my hair. (It feels good. I wish you would do it all the time.) I know that my wish wouldn't come true. We sharpen our awareness of the feeling that we may never be given again. Kurama: "-----Yoshino." Whether in a dream or not, I heard Kurama's voice calling my name. That was the last thing I remembered that night. When Kurama sees Yoshino starting to breathe slowly, he stops stroking her hair. Kurama: ".....Yoshino? You're already asleep." Her face was more innocent than usual. Kurama was sitting in crossed leg position, leaned forward, and looked at her with an insatiable gaze. Kurama: "What I see of you now will never swoon me" is what I said....why did I lie?" The smile on her face when she looks at something trivial, the peaceful look on her face when she sleeps. Those moments always touched Kurama's heart and will probably never go away. Kurama: "What is this...feeling?" (It's called love, dumbass!) Kurama put his hand to his chest in the darkness and raised an eyebrow.... ..................... ------Next day, early morning. Yoshino: "We're going to join up with the Rebel reinforcements, aren't we?" Kurama: "Yes." I was walking along with Kurama into the mountains. Kurama: "In half a day or so the reinforcements will arrive on the battlefield, and we'll make our way to a point where we can join them. It's a circuitous route, but it's easier to deceive the enemy if you go through the mountains. If we should meet any assassins, I will destroy them myself. If the Rebels and the Shogunate are to assemble, the Imperial Court will have gathered a number of pawns to oppose them." (There's no one more reliable than you to have on my side. But....) Kurama: "What? If you have something to say, say it." Yoshino: "Of course, I agree with the plan, but I thought it was a surprising decision for Kurama." (From what I've seen so far, Kurama could fly through the air and join up with the reinforcements at once and....) (He also said, he is going to find the enemy and beat them up...) I didn't have to explain myself to everyone, that I understood what he's trying to say. Then Kurama opens his mouth annoyingly. Kurama: "In the shadows of the marauders of the court are at least Yasuchika and Ibuki."

------Part 3------

Kurama: "In the shadows of the marauders of the court are at least Yasuchika and Ibuki. We don't know what they're up to, but it's easier to fight after making sure your safe." (You mean you've changed your normal ways because of me....?) Kurama, who is not stained by anyone else, is working for me. I didn't even know whether to be happy or horrified, so I just kept quiet. Kurama: "Wait!" (Hm?) Suddenly his hand blocks my way and my body stops. The air around Kurama was tense at once. Kurama: "Come on out----Ibuki!" Yoshino: "!!" In an instant, a blade of wind blows and cuts through the depths of the grove. Ibuki: ".....My my, that was scary. I could have died, you know." (Shuten Doji, Ibuki!) Ibuki walks towards us with a relaxed expression on his face, and despite his words, he is unharmed. Kurama: "How did you find out where we were?" Ibuki: "I was having a hard time because I lost the traces of your magic. I had no choice but to cry and beg Yasuchika to help me. He used some kind of astrology or something and here I am." (Yasuchika-san can do that too....? That guy is unbelievable.) Kurama: "Do you really think I'll believe that?" Ibuki: "You're right. You're the third person who I can't trick. But more importantly, what's your deal with her?" (Me....?) I squeezed my fingertips together and stared back into Ibuki's amused eyes. Kurama: "I don't have any business with her." Ibuki: "Really?" Ibuki raised one hand in the air as if it were an extension of small talk between friends. Ibuki: "Then, you won't mind if I take her, right?" Kurama: "----!! Come here." (This is!?) Something like a thunderbolt is running around Ibuki. The next moment----- Yoshino: "Kyaa!!" The roar was deafening and the light dazzled me with its intensity. At the same time, my body is already flying in the air, held by Kurama. Kurama: "Hold on tight." Yoshino: "Yes." I looked back and saw that the ground where we had been standing was scorched by the bolt of lightning. (This is Ibuki's power!?) Ibuki: "Oops, I missed." Once again, a bolt of lightning shot through the air, which Kurama avoided with me in his arms. We tried to go further up, but.... Kurama: "-----A barrier!" As if sensing an invisible wall, Kurama swooped down and clicked his tongue. Ibuki: "The only way to trap flying birds is to put it in a cage." (You mean, we're trapped in here, forever?) Ibuki: "Well, it won't last long---I'm afraid we'll have to settle for a short game, Kurama." Kurama: "I don't need to be told that I'm not going to have a long game with you." The air swirls and distorts noisily, and countless transparent blades head towards Ibuki. Ibuki: "Heh.....Hahaha...." Ibuki jumped to his feet, pulled out his greatsword, and thrust it hard into the ground. Then the sands of the earth flew up like a shield to protect Ibuki. (What is that!?) Yoshino: "I thought your power is thunder....how can you...?" Ibuki: "It is a simple application. The iron in the sand is attracted by my lightning power."

-------Part 4-------

Ibuki: "It is a simple application. The iron in the sand is attracted by my lightning power." Kurama: "Clever as ever." A flash of a fan sends a gust of wind so strong that it is impossible to stand properly and breaks the wall of sand. Ibuki: "...!" Behind the dust, blood trickled down Ibuki's shoulders and arms. (So much power....!) Ibuki: "I'm impressed you're this strong even after making a deal with a human. As expected of the Karasu Tengu, the quality and quantity of his abilities are far different from those of any other ordinary." Kurama: "Don't try to flatter me. The same goes for you too. But----" His red eyes sharply narrowed. Kurama: "Ibuki, you are sharing your power with someone. With whom?" Yoshino: "Eh..." Ibuki: "You're as intuitive as ever." Kurama: "I was wondering what you were doing with all that power...there's something wrong with the quality of your powers and the smell." Ibuki: "..............." Yoshino: "No way, Ibuki also made a deal....?" (However.) -----Tamamo told me that it was very rare for a demon to make a deal. (Because it halves their power by sharing it with humans.) (He said they don't make a deal with humans unless they like them very much.) Yoshino: "Maybe, Yasuchika-san.....?" Ibuki: "Wrong. Making a deal with an Onmyoji will cancel out each other's powers and we'll both destroy ourselves." (Then who....) Ibuki: "There's one more interesting person." Kurama: "Interesting, huh?" With me behind him, and Ibuki at a distance, Kurama continued calmly. Kurama: "Your powers had been subtly altered. I've never heard of anyone influencing the quality of the power cast by a demon." Ibuki: "You'll both meet each other soon enough. For now, watch me....okay?" Holding his greatsword above his head with one hand, Ibuki smiled wryly. Kurama: "Yoshino, get down." Yoshino: "I'll fight too. I can use my powers...." (I want to be an equal----because I want to be strong.) Kurama frowned but tried not to stop me anymore. Ibuki: "You two are so cute. But there's nothing more frightening than an impromptu fight." (Ah.....) A white flash of light comes from the sword, which is swung with ease. Kurama: "Yoshino!" I raised my hand towards him and Kurama holds me. (I'm scared, but.) (If we can't fight here, everything we've been worrying about will be for nothing!) (Please, lend me the power of the nine-tail fox!) Ibuki: "Let's see what you got."

-------Part 5------

Ibuki: "Let's see what you got." The golden dew rises and the palms of my hands become hot. But a series of thunderbolts were aimed at me again. Yoshino: "Nn...." (He's too strong. I can't take him on my own!) I was on the verge of being scorched and Kurama was quickly holding me and kicking the earth. Yoshino: "T-Thank you." Kurama: "You stay focused. I'll dodge and counterattack." Ibuki: "So you've changed your mind about making her as your toy? Kurama." The blades of the wind are caught and dodged one by one. Moving too fast for his height, Ibuki unexpectedly lifted a rock from the ground. Kurama: "...!" (Ngh.....) Ibuki: "Here we go." Without saying a word, Kurama hits the thrown rock with a tremendous wind and reduces its momentum, but----- The impact of the rock, which just barely missed the path of the direct hit, knocked me off my feet and sent me stumbling. Kurama: "Yoshino!" Ibuki: "There there." Kurama: "Nn...ha..." A flash of lightning burned Kurama's arm as he brought me to my feet. Yoshino: "Kurama!" Kurama: "It doesn't matter..." (You got hurt because of me...) I bit my lips when I see Kurama covering me up with his bleeding hand. Ibuki: "You can counteract the ability, but you can't prevent a direct attack. A mixture of powers and brute strength will be enough to counteract it. Too bad, huh? Yoshino." (I know....the weakness of my fox power is that I can't fight alone. But....) Yoshino: "I can't believe this..." I look at the rocks on the ground and mutter. Ibuki: "There's nothing to be surprised about. Demons are known for their strength." Kurama: "If you

want to show off, do it somewhere else." Ibuki: "Don't be so sure, Karasu Tengu must also have things to be proud of, right?" Ibuki grumbled as a wall of sand barely blocked the deadly wind. Ibuki: "Karasu Tengu is not only powerful, but they are also fast and use their wings to attack in all directions. But Kurama, unfortunately with Yoshino in your arms, you've been denied that advantage." (Ah.....) Kurama: "..........." I looked up Kurama without thinking of the strong wind. Ibuki: "Is this your first time fighting for someone?----Boy, you look like you're having a hard time." Kurama: "Shut up." (....I knew. I knew I was slowing down Kurama.) Ibuki's shield, a wall of sand, collapsed with the blade of the wind. Ibuki kicked the ground in spite of this. Ibuki: "I love to hear you calling me 'Oni-san' again..." A whirlpool of wind flies in pursuit of it, and the dust again stands in the way, moving as if trying to swallow it up. Ibuki: "You're weak now, Kurama. In the old days, you had a chance to win against me." (Be careful!) In a single breath, Ibuki's sword swung down on Kurama. Kurama: "----You don't get to tell me about my past." The heavy blow was caught by Kurama's iron fan. But he was pushed by the great force----- (It is because he got hurt earlier....?) Ibuki: "Didn't I tell you? Kurama. The weaklings are destined to die at the feet of stronger ones. I'll remind you of the humiliation of being taken from you by force." Kurama: "Nn...." (What!?) The sword and the fan touched each other with a crisp sound, and blue-white sparks flew from them. The impact created a momentary gap and Ibuki slashed Kurama across the shoulder. Yoshino: "Kurama!" Fresh blood dripped down and stained Kurama's kimono. (......I can't believe that Kurama is so hurt.) Kurama: "----A different kind of power wrapped in the golden air. Depressing as ever." Ibuki: "You know me too well. Well, I did raise you with these hands. Oh, by the way, Kurama....do you remember a promise I made a long time ago? That, one day you'll have someone you care about, and I'll break them with my own hands." The tip of Ibuki's sword, raised in laughter, was suddenly pointed at me. (Eh....) Ibuki: "That time has come." Kurama: "Stop! Ibuki-----" Yoshino: "......!!" Kurama pushes me and I fall to the ground. The next moment, I felt a splash of blood on my face. I realized it was Kurama's blood. Yoshino: "Kurama...what..." Kurama: "Nn.....Didn't I order you not to get scratched by other men?" Chapter 22

[pressedinthepages]

Beneath Each Other's Bones

My fic entry for @eskelbigbang <3

Please also check out @drachedraws two amazing pieces of art that they made for this fic!

Relationship Tags: Eskel/Geralt

Character Tags: Eskel, Geralt, Lambert, Vesemir, Lil' Bleater

Other Tags: smut, established relationship, oral and anal intercourse (m/m), some very soft smut. what can i say.

Summary: Winter at Kaer Morhen can be brutal. But Eskel and Geralt find warmth in each other in an effort to stave off the cold.

The stones of Kaer Morhen sighed as the sun rose over the winter-frosted valley. The birds and harpies had long since traveled south for the cooler months, and the draconids had nestled themselves in the depths of the mountains around the aging keep. The castle itself was full of its Witchers, who were patiently waiting for the first snowfall to blanket their surroundings in layers of quiet white . With the last witcher having finally arrived a few evenings prior, the pack were all finally able to rest peacefully with the knowledge that all were safe.

The first thing that Geralt felt was cold. His nose, the tips of his ears. The rest of him was encompassed in warmth, but the chill rudely nipped him awake, undaunted by his furry woollen fortress. He squinted one eye open with a grimace, finding his bedroom washed in the cool sunlight that streamed in from the window. It was still early. The morning sun had barely breached the horizon. Lambert would still be snoozing away, cocooned in the safety of a warm and familiar bed, but Vesemir would likely already be down in the kitchen preparing for the day.

Geralt’s ears, barely poking out from under his blanket, picked up the steady thunks of wood being chopped, and he grunted as he sat up, letting the blanket pool around his waist. His chest was bare, pale, scarred skin reluctantly exposed to the early winter air as the witcher roused himself. Still sitting in his bed, he turned and scooted to the windowsill, peering at the courtyard below.

Ah, fuck. Geralt’s morning arousal became actively invested in the sight that met him. Eskel had a stack of freshly chopped logs at his side, with one propped up atop a large stone. Geralt could see his muscles strain against the thin linen of his shirt as he swung the sharp ax high over his head, its honed edge glinting with the emergence of the sun as it met its apex, only to fall again with breathtaking force. The log split in two, and Eskel gathered the halves off to the side, stacking them neatly with the others on a long piece of thick canvas with handles on either end.

The ax found a resting spot for a moment as Eskel wiped the sweat from his brow. Geralt set his chin in his hands and his elbows on the edge of the windowsill and held in a low groan. Eskel had reached for the neck of his tunic and lifted it up over his head, revealing the olive-toned flesh of his stomach and the dark curls of hair over his chest that drew a delicious line below the band of his trousers. It was clear he’d been the first to return to Kaer Morhen. A comfortable roll of belly fat protruded from the confines of his belt, proof he’d had plenty of time to rest and indulge over the past weeks. His skin shone with perspiration and his thighs flexed and pushed at the fabric when he lifted another heavy log onto the chopping stone. Hells, the haphazard seam of one of the trouser legs was coming loose as his thigh threatened to free itself.

Eskel breathed in and swung again, driving the ax all the way through the thick log in a single stroke. As the two halves hit the ground he turned, dropping the ax and facing the little patch of green that remained before the frost. Lil’ Bleater was happily bounding through the grass, pouncing off of crates and rubble like it was her sole duty in life. Eskel smiled wide as Geralt did the same from his perch. The sun glinted off of Eskel’s back, dancing over the drops of sweat that dripped into the hollows of his muscles. Geralt swallowed thickly, unable to look away when Eskel’s arms came up to sweep the hair out of his face. The muscles of his shoulders and down the line of his spine flexed and shifted beneath his olive skin as he moved his hands to his hips.

“Alright, Bleats,” Eskel laughed as she came bounding over to his feet. He leaned down and offered a few sweet pats to the top of her head, “Think we’ve given Geralt enough of a show?”

He glanced over his shoulder with a cheeky grin to where Geralt was watching from the window, jaw agape and gobsmacked. The goat bleated as Eskel turned back and waved, and Geralt truly couldn’t help the smile that crept up his face if he tried.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Geralt grumbled half-heartedly as he watched Eskel drape his tunic back over his head. He was picking up the straps to the carrier for the firewood when Geralt finally tore himself away from the window, willing himself calm.

It only took a moment of deep breathing and a lifetime’s worth of practice, but Geralt soon found himself presentable to pleasant company. He threw on his usual winter attire, soft trousers and an even softer loose-fitting tunic tucked into the waist of his pants, his lined boots, and his cloak thrown over his shoulder. He tied his hair back off his face and let the rest hang on his shoulders in long silver waves. Finally, Geralt grabbed his swords and scabbards before heading down the stairs to the small kitchen space.

As expected, Vesemir was there with a steaming mug, poring over a book that was almost certainly older than Geralt himself.. He grabbed an apple and plopped down on the bench next to Vesemir, the both of them wordlessly grunting a greeting at the other. Geralt ate in relative silence for a bit, only the latent thrumming of the older Witcher’s heart and the crackling of embers in the fire accompanying the crunch of apple between his teeth.

That is, until Eskel butted open the doors to the hall and dragged his firewood haul in with him. Lil’ Bleater was riding the pile of wood like a pirate would her ship, the stack being almost as high as Eskel’s shoulders. Speaking of Eskel’s shoulders, Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away from the visible line of sweat that trailed its way down his back, darkening the linen of his shirt and making it stick in all the most tempting places. He felt his mouth water at the sight and the piece of apple still in his mouth felt thick and hard as he choked it down.

Eskel grunted as he got close enough to the fireplace to relinquish his load, letting the heavy pieces fall haphazardly as he dropped the canvas sheet. The apple slipped from Geralt’s hand and bounced on the table before falling to the floor. “Dammit,” he growled, pointedly ignoring the disappointed sigh that escaped Vesemir’s nostrils.

He picked the fruit up and dusted it off, slicing off another piece as Eskel approached the table. Eskel smelled...like he needed a bath. Salt and sweat clung to his skin and wood dusted the strands of his hair, but he still carried that deep, musky, earthy scent that shone with a hint of citrus. It was the scent that kept Geralt awake at night, kept him sane on the Path. It was everything.

Eskel reached over and plucked a handful of dried fruits and nuts, as well as the jar of honey. He dropped the fruits and nuts into a bowl and carefully swirled a generous portion of honey over top. His fingers shone with the golden, sticky sweetness as he grabbed a dried grape and popped it between his lips. The scar turned his mouth upwards at the edge and pulled oddly at his lip while he ate. Geralt remembered how long it took for Eskel to be comfortable eating in front of him again after he got that scar, and he treasures every moment that he gets to see.

“Geralt?” Vesemir peered over his mug at him.

Geralt hummed in response, already dreading the day’s assignment.

“Oh don’t give me that. I need you to go out and put salt on the training grounds before the dirt frosts, and freshen up the wards around it. I don’t need the goats going in and licking it all up again. After that, the day’s yours.”

“And me?” Eskel asked around his mouthful.

“You can be done, you’ve already chopped enough wood to last us a good few weeks. I’ll get Lambert to-”

“NO. Don’t go giving my assignments before I even get to the table, old fart,” Lambert called down the stairwell.

Vesemir blinked slowly and sighed once more. “I’ll get Lambert to do SOMETHING ELSE today, though if you want something to keep busy, I’m sure there are some books that need rebinding.”

Geralt watched Eskel nod and swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Yeah, alright. I may take some time later and see what I can do about those books. Lay them out for me?”

“Of course.”

Eskel smiled over at Geralt, his deep amber eyes meeting Geralt’s sunrise gold. Geralt’s moon and stars rested in those eyes, a whole universe tucked away in the depths of Eskel’s soul, bared just for him. They smiled at each other before Geralt tore himself away, draping his cloak over his shoulders and striding quietly towards the door.

Eskel watched him haul the heavy bag of salt up onto his shoulder with a grunt. He shook his head with a smile and polished off the last of his breakfast. The stool scraped on the floor as he pushed away from the table, ready to go fall into a warm bed somewhere. Eskel heard the door shut from Lambert’s room as his feet pounded down the stairs, so he made haste in avoiding that breakfast discussion.

***

Why’s Geralt back outside?

Eskel rounded the corner of the staircases, following the fresh scent of Geralt trailing out to the courtyard. It was far past noon by this point, and Geralt had already taken care of the training grounds. He had come back in right as the sun reached its highest point in the sky, climbing the spiral stairs in search of a snack.

Eskel shouldered open the heavy wooden doors and turned to the east, following the light footprints over the balding grass. He smiled to himself as he heard soft whispers coming from the stables, low and not meant for anothers’ ears. Well, another human’s ears.

He stopped just short of the doors, now close enough to make out the words being murmured.

“-n’t give me that look, I was just wanting to braid your mane.” Geralt’s honeyed tenor drifted over the heartbeats and huffed breaths behind the stall. “I know Eskel doesn’t normally do it, but it’ll help keep it from matting over the winter. I bet you’d hate for our big softie to have to cut off old chunks of your mane, wouldn’t you?”

Eskel heard Scorpion huff heavily from his nose and he chuckled, pulling on the cool steel handle and closing the door behind him. The whispers stopped as Geralt peered over the short wall between the stalls, his hair shimmering golden with the light of the fire roaring in the fireplace. He held a hardy brush in his right hand and had his other resting lightly on Scorpion’s flank, and his hair was tied up high and away from his face.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Eskel rumbled, crossing to where he could see into Scorpion’s stall. He let his back hit the wall behind him and slid down, his bottom thumping audibly onto the ground.

“Just gonna sit there and watch me?” Geralt grumbled, resuming his brushing of Scorpion’s mane. The great warhorse stamped his foot impatiently, butting his head into Geralt’s chest.

Eskel quirked his brow and nodded, “Figured you wouldn’t mind after you ogled me this morning.”

The tips of Geralt’s ears flushed a pretty pink as he hummed noncommittally in his chest. Not denying it.

“Your man’s a smartass,” Geralt mumbled to Scorpion, and the horse fucking snickered, I shit you not.

“Ay,” Eskel laughed, watching a little smile threaten to pull at Geralt’s lips, “no need to turn my horse against me, I’ll need him come Spring.”

“Don’t wanna talk about Spring,” Geralt sighed, carefully running his fingers, long and delicate, so unlike Eskel’s, through the wispy strands of Scorpion’s mane.

“Me neither.” Eskel pulled up his knees and rested his elbows atop them, his eyes drifting down Geralt’s body. Gods, but he’s so gorgeous.

If you asked him, Eskel would say that he couldn’t pick a favorite part of his Geralt. Everything was his favorite, it was impossible to choose. But Eskel did have a favorite, and he very well kept it to himself, thank you very much.

That damned waist. The way that Geralt’s shoulders, broad and sharp, sloped in and down over his stomach and into a glorious handful for Eskel. Nothing about Geralt was dainty, not in the slightest, but Eskel loved that he could wrap his arm over the soft line of his waist in the dead of night, or grasp desperately onto it while lost in the throes of passion.

Eskel sat there quietly, listening to Geralt mumble to Scorpion while he busied his hands. He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the idle sounds of the castle and nearby woods overtake his mind and senses. He could hear Lambert’s heavy footfalls from beneath the castle, down in the labs. A pack of wolves patrolled the treeline past the castle walls, jaws snapping as they called to each other under the low afternoon sun.

He heard Geralt’s footsteps grow close to him, stopping just where Eskel’s hips met the floor. Geralt’s fingers brushed gently through Eskel’s thick, dark hair and Eskel couldn’t hold back the quiet moan that spilled from his lips. Geralt chuckled and knelt at his side, running his hand down Eskel’s cheek and thumbing over the line of his brow.

“I know you went down to the springs and got clean earlier,” Geralt rumbled lowly, “but maybe you’d want to join me for a bit?”

Eskel smiled and opened his eyes, two golds meeting and melding into one. He nodded and Geralt leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. Geralt reached and grabbed onto Eskel’s hand, pulling him to stand and brushing the stray bits of straw from his backside.

Eskel chuckled as he batted Geralt’s hand away, though not before he got a solid squeeze in edgewise. “Hey, if you wanted to touch my ass, all you had to do was ask.”

Geralt shrugged as they walked through the doors to the castle and down the center spiral staircase that led to the hot springs, “I always want to touch your ass. Doesn’t really matter.”

Eskel shook his head and laughed heartily as he felt the air change. It felt thick, musty, warm with minerals and moss that grew in sharp brushstrokes up the walls. His lungs filled with the comfort of home, the air that was unique to this one spot of the castle, and only ever really meshed with his soul when Geralt was around to share in it.

He watched Geralt peel his shirt from his body, his pale skin a stark contrast to the dim caverns lit only by the stray candle or two sporadically placed in the cracks of the stones. Eskel reached out, his hand guided only by the raw urge to touch, to feel Geralt’s skin yield under his fingers, and he felt the warmth before he even made contact.

Geralt’s sigh tingled under his fingertips, vibrating through his bones with a summer long lost. Eskel stood flush to Geralt’s back, his hand resting over Geralt’s heart and his neck bent to rest his forehead at the nape of Geralt’s neck. He invaded Eskel’s every sense, every fiber of his being, just by existing in the same space. He smelled of sweat and horse and hay and happiness and home, and Eskel just wanted to...breathe him in. To take him into his lungs and never let him go. He felt Geralt’s fingers intertwine with his where they rested on Geralt’s chest, long and thin and pulling him up to Geralt’s lips. His lips were cool and chapped from the chill outside, but Eskel felt the warmth being pulled from his soul into the sweet press of Geralt’s lips.

“C’mon, let’s get into the baths,” Geralt mumbled, his lips still pressing into the pads of Eskel’s fingers. Eskel hummed noncommittally, honestly fine with just standing here, Geralt in his arms and close enough to finally feel. Geralt turned and stepped back, just out of Eskel’s reach with a grin as he reached for the ties on his trousers. “I’d like to get clean before I die of old age, so you best get naked.”

Eskel smirked and shucked his own shirt to the side, undoing the bright ties on his codpiece and letting the thick leather fall away. His trousers fell and were kicked away with his boots and the air embraced his skin with a welcoming grasp. He padded towards the pools, slipping into the water with a grateful sigh that one would expect from the sight of a long-lost friend.

He peeked over his shoulder and found Geralt standing where he was left, mouth slack-jawed and his hands hovering with his trousers half-undone. Geralt blinked and cleared his throat, adjusting himself through the leather of his trousers before untying them the rest of the way and letting them fall away. “I...it always surprises me just how much I can forget…”

Eskel crooked his head as Geralt stepped into the water beside him, rippling the waves over and up the stone sides. “What do you mean?”

“Just...you,” Geralt murmured, dipping under the water to soak his hair, “you are always so much more...real than I can ever keep in my mind. Whenever I think of you, it always pales in comparison to actually seeing you in front of me.”

Eskel felt his cheeks flush and he smiled, running his damp hands through his hair before lounging back into the edge of the pool. “I can never really get how you feel right. I know how good it makes me feel, but actually touching you? Or hearing your heart? My brain can’t replicate that. Not well enough, anyway.”

“Exactly. And it always is a bit of a shock. But a good one.” Geralt soaped up his hair quickly, batting away Eskel’s hands when he tried to help. “No, I want to get this part out of the way so we can relax. We can do that next time.”

Eskel thought back to a couple of winters prior, when Geralt had requested that he wash his hair for him. Albeit, with a bit of a caveat. Eskel spent an hour washing Geralt’s long, thick silver locks with his cock buried to the hilt in Geralt’s ass, the both of them gasping and clinging onto each other by the time his hair was rinsed. Eskel smiled at the memory as Geralt ducked back under the water, leaving his hair dripping wet and free of suds.

Geralt peered over at Eskel with a smirk playing at his lips as he reached his hand for Eskel’s thigh. He felt the muscle tense briefly under his fingers as he moved up slowly, his other hand sliding up and onto Eskel’s neck. Eskel sighed gently, a pull of air from deep in his lungs as Geralt played with the little curls of hair on the nape of his neck. Geralt’s hand moved over his hip, warm and soft and just a tad squishy beneath the water, and splayed over his stomach, tracing idle swirls through the hair that led down to his groin. Before he could get far, though, Eskel caught his errant hand with his own and brought them to his lips.

“We should eat first,” Eskel rumbled, his lips brushing the sensitive tips of Geralt’s fingers with every whispered word, “then I’d like to take you to bed properly.”

“Hmm,” Geralt traced down the scars on Eskel’s cheek and into his lip, watching the tiniest little shudder shoot over his nerves, “Lambert cooking tonight?”

Eskel nodded and ran his hands down Geralt’s spine and the swell of his backside. Not pushing or pulling with any direction, just feeling the skin that he so craved, even in his sleep. Geralt bent down, just barely pressing his forehead into Eskel’s and brushing their noses together. “You’ve kept me waiting all day,” Geralt sighed with a smile, “I suppose I could wait a bit longer. Not much though.”

Eskel chuckled and pecked Geralt on the cheek, “I promise. Once we’re both warm and comfortable and full, then I’ll take you upstairs and show you just how much I’ve needed you.”

“If you don’t let me go now, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop myself,” Geralt growled and nipped at Eskel’s chin. Eskel laughed and playfully shoved him back, watching the crystalline water drip down the dark hairs over his chest and into the dip of his waist. He had been feeling the stirrings of arousal all day, but it was getting more and more difficult to ignore.

Eskel followed Geralt as he clambered out of the springs, his hands and feet striking roughly against the weathered stone beneath them. He smirked at the quite obvious state of arousal that Geralt was in, his skin flushed and his cock straining upwards from between his thighs.

Geralt could feel Eskel’s eyes on him as he strode towards their pile of clothes and drying sheets. He peeked over his shoulder at him, finding Eskel hauling himself out of the bath with his arms, the muscles dipping and pulling as he rose to his full height, soaked to the bone and sporting a very pretty erection of his own. Geralt’s mouth watered as he wrapped a sheet to hang low on his hips before gathering his worn clothes into a bundle in his arms.

Eskel followed suit, feeling the drafty air whistle through his legs and cool the drips of water that still wore their path down to the floor below. They traveled through the halls together, still shoulder to shoulder even though the walls were just a tad too close together to accommodate them both comfortably. They didn't mind though, drawing their warmth together and letting their souls mingle in the approaching evening.

As they climbed the spiral staircase that led back to the main level of the keep, Eskel could smell the dinner that Lambert had been working on, something with chicken and hearty vegetables, along with bread and fresh butter and citrus chutney. They continued on up the stairs until they reached the door to Eskel’s chambers. They did typically end up sharing the room over the winter, but Geralt still liked to have his own little private space for himself. Eskel knew how loud the world could feel, and he liked having his own space too sometimes.

He kissed Geralt sweetly on the shoulder as he moved to continue up the stairs to his own room, leaving a tingle of his lips to keep him company. Geralt shook his head with a light hearted huff and slowly climbed up the spiral, and Eskel waited until he heard the heavy thud of his thick wooden door to open his own. He threw his clothes onto the chair by the fireplace before flicking his fingers out and up in the sign for Igni, feeling the warmth from the fire bloom from his palm and onto the wood, bathing the room in a pale glow.

Eskel dressed quickly, throwing soft trousers over his underthings, followed by a knit shirt that stretched across his chest and held tight. He left his swords propped by the door next to his boots before padding back down the stairs into the dining area. The three fires roared beneath bubbling pots and sizzling pans, sending rich scents swirling softly around the room. Lambert stood over one, giving it one last stir before grabbing onto the handles. Eskel lowered himself onto the bench at the table just as Lambert set the steaming cauldron down onto the nearly-black wood.

Vesemir grabbed the other pan and brought it over, lifting the lid to reveal several chicken breasts that had been seared and seasoned to perfection. Lambert began to ladle some of the stew from his pot onto his plate and tore a chunk of bread for himself before tossing the loaf to Eskel. It was warm in his palm and he smiled, the bread soft and yielding as he tore off some for himself as well. Vesemir declined, so he set the rest of the loaf in Geralt���s spot and began to heap his own plate with Lambert’s delicious looking dinner.

Geralt joined soon after they began to eat, dressed comfortably with his silvery hair pulled up and away from his face. Geralt swung his long legs over the bench and sat down next to Eskel, humming as he picked up the bread.

“Yeah, pretty boy, saved that bit for ya. Dig in before it all gets cold.” Lambert chucked the ladle down in Geralt’s direction, sending stray bits of stew flying to the walls. Vesemir rolled his eyes as Geralt caught it without looking and gave it a spin, rotating it flamboyantly around his fingers before plopping it straight into the great pot.

The four of them ate in relative silence, only the gentle scraping of utensils or grunts of acknowledgement breaking the fragile quiet. Vesemir was the first to be finished with his meal, leaning back in his seat and breathing in deeply. “Delicious as always, Lambert. Thank you. I'm headed to the library, gonna try and go through some of the old tomes.”

Lambert nodded and the others hummed, no one willing to part with their plates quite yet. Eskel wiped his plate down with the remainder of his bread, sopping up the stew and downing it all in one satisfying mouthful. Geralt watched with a raised brow and a smirk.

“Alright lovebirds, I’m off. Try to keep it down, at least a little, huh?” Lambert winked as he stood and wandered off, likely back down to the alchemy labs for more of his...experiments. Eskel chuckled as Geralt lobbed an old apple at the back of Lambert’s head, more for effect than anything else. Lambert batted it away into a corner and Eskel sighed. He stood and retrieved it, knowing that it would be long forgotten if he didn’t. He set it back onto the table before stretching his arms up above his head and turning to the door that led to the staircases.

Eskel held his hand out to Geralt, who looked at it through hooded lids. “Join me?”

Geralt smiled and lept to his feet, the last few bites of his dinner instantly forgotten. “Fuckin’ finally, you tease.”

Eskel laughed as the two of them bumbled up the stairs and into Eskel’s room. Geralt could feel the warmth emanating before they even swung open the door, his cheeks flushing and his arms shivering with the welcome change in temperature. Eskel shut the door behind him and led him to stand before the fireplace, his olive skin glowing in the flames.

Geralt sighed as he felt Eskel’s hands on his hips, his fingers toying with the hem of Geralt’s shirt and just glancing to the skin of his stomach beneath. Eskel slid his hands up and pulled Geralt’s shirt with him, lifting it over his head and letting it land with a soft thud in the cushy armchair in the corner.

Next Eskel moved to Geralt’s trousers, sliding the ties open and letting them fall to the floor. He gave Geralt’s bum a little pat and nodded to the bed. “Go on, I’ll be just behind you.”

Geralt reached to push down his smalls but Eskel caught his hands and dropped them back by his side. “J-just wanna hold you for a bit...that okay?”

Geralt hummed, pressing his lips to the junction between Eskel’s neck and shoulder, “Of course, Wolf. Don’t take too long though, gonna get cold without you.”

Geralt smiled as he climbed onto the wide bed draped in thick furs and soft knit blankets. Eskel loved textures, and tried to surround their bed with as much comfort as he could find. His golden gaze found Eskel once more as he too stripped down to his smallclothes. Geralt leaned back onto the soft pillows as Eskel slid up next to him, resting his head on Geralt’s chest and breathing in deeply. Geralt wrapped his arm around the breadth of Eskel’s shoulders and held him close, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against his side. Geralt could see out of the little window cut into the stone, revealing the sun setting in bright oranges and deep purples between the craggles of the Blue Mountains.

Eskel ran his hands down Geralt’s chest, tracing those same swirling patterns as before while he peppered kisses up and down the line of Geralt’s neck and over his collarbone. Geralt could always feel the little crook in Eskel’s lip from his scar as it traced over his skin, grounding him home in warm arms and soft eyes that held endless love and patience.

Geralt threaded his fingers into Eskel’s hair and gave a little scratch at the nape of his neck, chuckling a bit when he felt the full body shudder that Eskel granted him. Geralt felt the gasp of hot breath ghost over his collar when he tugged gently on the handful of hair that he had, and a possessive kind of growl erupted from behind his teeth. Geralt didn’t often let this part of himself show, this need to hang onto every thread of his partner, but with Eskel, it felt safe, known, instinctual.

Eskel pushed himself up and pressed his hand firmly in the center of Geralt’s chest, breathing with the steady thuds of the heart that rested just beneath his fingers. Eskel’s eyes were dark with lust and hunger and something so deep and innate that it escaped such a simple name. Eskel slid his hand up and wrapped it gently around the back of Geralt’s neck and leaned down, pressing their foreheads together as he climbed between Geralt’s legs.

Geralt lifted his leg and wrapped it around Eskel’s hip in an attempt to get him to maybe speed things up a bit. “Eskel,” Geralt hummed, “Gods, you’re killing me…”

Eskel smiled and ran his nose down the line of Geralt’s jaw and into the hollows of his neck. His lips traced along the tendons and veins and his teeth just barely glanced over his pulse point and Geralt felt his cock thicken and throb where Eskel pressed into him.

“Can I have you like this?” Eskel asked, his voice still muffled in Geralt’s neck, “Just wanna be able to look at you…”

Geralt swallowed thickly and nodded, turning his head in search of Eskel’s mouth. He finally, finally, slid their lips together, breathing each other in and holding onto each and every piece that they could reach. Geralt wrapped his arms around Eskel’s waist and stroked up and down the hard lines of his back, tracing the scars he knew better than his own.

“Lift-nng” Eskel tried to say, though Geralt nipped and tugged at his lower lip to keep him in place, “Lift your damn hips, you great oaf.”

Geralt chuckled and did as he was bid, letting Eskel run his fingers through the ties keeping his braies on and loosening them. They slid down his thighs and Eskel let him rest his bum back on the bed. Eskel shimmied himself backwards and fully pulled the smalls off of Geralt, sending them careening through the room to land somewhere in the shadows. Geralt’s cock lay hard and flushed and weeping on his stomach and Eskel took a deep breath in through his nose, grounding himself in the lust on the air and the taste of Geralt already on his tongue.

Eskel stood up and turned to face the fire as he undid his own smalls, pushing them down quickly and without any dramatics. But Geralt found himself drooling over him anyways, seeing the beautiful bronze skin revealed inch by glorious inch, the swells of his backside just begging for his teeth to sink into. Again. He then grabbed the little vial of oil that spent most of the year gathering dust on the mantle, but in the winter found a new home atop the little table next to their bed.

And oh fucking shit I’ve missed that so much, Geralt thought as Eskel turned back to him with his cock hanging heavily between his thighs. Eskel crawled onto the bed and prowled over top of him, his chest already heaving and pressing into Geralt’s. Eskel sat up on his knees and Geralt braced himself on his elbows, watching Eskel uncork the oil and slowly drip a generous amount of the cool liquid onto their cocks where they rested together. Eskel’s hand was warm when he reached down to rub the oil around, wrapping around them and tugging and pulling and-

“-Fuck, Eskel,” Geralt spat through grit teeth when Eskel just barely thumbed the slit of Geralt’s cockhead. “If you’re gonna do all that shit, I need you in me now.”

Eskel laughed breathily and kissed Geralt hard, all teeth and tongue and rushed whispers of affection. “Alright, alright. I’ve got you, Geralt. I’ve got you…”

Eskel poured some more oil between Geralt’s legs and Geralt felt it slowly trickle down to his entrance. Eskel’s fingers followed soon after, languidly rolling his balls around in his palm before trailing down between his cheeks. Geralt sighed as Eskel started pressing around his hole, not pushing in yet, just massaging and loosening the tight muscle.

“Gods, Geralt,” Eskel murmured, dragging his free hand down Geralt’s flank and across his stomach, “you’re so tense…”

“No one’s been back there since Spring, Esk…”

Eskel blinked up at him and Geralt could taste the new wave of arousal that poured off Eskel. “You’ve not had anyone? All year? Geralt, I...you-”

Geralt’s head hit the pillow and he sighed, trying desperately to put the words together in his head. “I-fuck, Eskel, I just want you. You’re...you’re the only one who I can...who I can be comfortable with.”

Eskel surged forward and captured Geralt’s lips between his own, tasting of salt and honey and fucking unending love. “Geralt. Fuck. You can’t just say shit like that out of nowhere. Fuck, I love you so much it hurts. It fucking hurts, and then you just go and say that? You’re gonna put me in an early grave-”

Geralt’s world twisted and turned as Eskel’s hands gripped onto his hips, his fingers digging into his skin as they rolled and shifted on the bed, winding up with Geralt laying on his stomach and Eskel’s lips pressing into the skin at the nape of his neck. Eskel dragged his mouth down, leaving hot wet kisses down Geralt’s spine and over the swell of his bottom.

Eskel’s breath ghosted over Geralt’s skin as he slid his finger back down to press against his entrance, finding only a gasp of resistance as he pushed in to his knuckle. He worked Geralt open slowly, kneading and licking and nipping the soft flesh of Geralt’s ass while he slid in another, and then one more finger. He relished the little noises that clawed their way out of Geralt’s chest unbidden, gasps and moans and keens that he felt more than heard.

Meanwhile Geralt was warring with his own mind, torn between wanting so desperately to grasp into Eskel’s hair and haul him back up to feel his lips cover his own, trailing down over his jaw and neck and chest, but also needing to feel more of him, deeper, harder-

Their words broke off between gasps for air and fisted sheets and Eskel quietly continued his task of working Geralt open on his fingers. Geralt’s breath hitched in his throat when Eskel crooked his fingers inside of him, warm and slick and hitting up against that devastating bundle of nerves. But all too soon it was not so nice, his fingers sliding in and out and not being close to enough for Geralt. “M-shit, more, Eskel.”

Eskel hummed and bit down into the tender flesh of Geralt’s bum, feeling the fluttering of his walls play at his fingers. He looked down and watched his fingers slowly slide in and out, stretching him in preparation of what was to come. Eskel had his own wars inside of his head, his need to shower Geralt with soft touches so rarely afforded to his battle-worn skin clashing against the feeling tugging behind his belly to find the breaking point nestled so deep inside of Geralt’s body.

Geralt’s hips thrusted softly against the bed beneath them, chasing the release that had been teasing at them both all damn day. Eskel chuckled when a particularly hard thrust made him bonk his nose into the crease of Geralt’s asscheeks, and he shifted himself to sit up with a sweet pat to the swells of muscle.

“Roll back over, wanna look at you-”

Geralt sighed when he felt Eskel’s fingers slip out of him, leaving him oddly empty and aching and wanting. It took him a moment to find his bearings, but he flipped over soon enough to meet Eskel’s fiery eyes. Eskel hovered over him, his chest heaving with hot breaths and his medallion clinking against Geralt’s. Geralt ran his fingers through the soft dark hair over Eskel’s chest, pressing his fingers into the yielding flesh over his heart and giving it a squeeze. Eskel growled with a sinister grin and moved faster down his body than Geralt had anticipated.

Eskel leaned down and lapped his tongue up the underside of Geralt’s cock just as he slipped his fingers back into him. Geralt shook when Eskel wrapped his lips around the tip and sunk down, teasing and licking while his fingers hit that precious bundle of nerves nestled so deep inside of him. Eskel’s mouth moved with his hand, pushing in and out and up and down and humming against him and Geralt could feel the pearly arousal dripping onto Eskel’s tongue with every slick slide of his lips.

“Ah, ah, Esk-g...gonna-fuck...”

Eskel only hummed, low and hard from his chest, and Geralt arched up off the bed in pleasure when Eskel zeroed in on that spot within him, holding there and sucking and slurping every bit of spend that Geralt had to give. It just kept coming, shooting down Eskel’s throat and spilling out the sides of his lips messily. Eskel felt the haze of his own pleasure tease at the edges of his eyes as his hips thrust lazily against the bed, his free hand holding tight to Geralt’s hip.

Geralt sagged back onto the bed in a haze, tender and sensitive and already craving more. He pulled Eskel back up to him and ran his thumb over the corner of his mouth, gathering his own spend onto his finger. Geralt slipped his thumb between his lips and licked it clean as Eskel watched with great gasping breaths and eyes so dark there was only a little ring of gold shining in the night.

“Geralt, fuck, c-can I-” Eskel stuttered over his words, his hands running over Geralt’s shoulders and down his chest, his cock dripping down into the hair above Geralt’s own half-hard cock.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed and fit his hand up onto the nape of Eskel’s neck, his fingers pressing firm while Eskel shifted on the bed to line himself at Geralt’s entrance.

Eskel gasped into Geralt’s skin as he just barely pushed into the rim, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist to hold him as close as possible. Geralt’s fingers tightened in Eskel’s hair as he started to gently thrust inside of him, Eskel’s chest rumbling with a low purr as he smothered Geralt with his body.

“G-Geralt,” Eskel murmured, his hips already losing rhythm, “I’m, fuck you’re so-”

Geralt hummed and nodded, running his hands down Eskel’s shoulders and back up again around his neck. “Go on, Eskel. You’ve been on edge all day. Give it to me.”

Eskel’s voice went high and strained, tight mumbles escaping from between his teeth as he ground his hips deep against Geralt’s, spending inside of him. Eskel rubbed his face into the tender skin of Geralt’s neck as he finally, gloriously released into him, feeling the way that he fluttered and flexed around his cock. He saw great stars shooting behind his eyelids as his climax tore through him, unrelenting and all-encompassing.

Geralt kept his hold firm on Eskel as he went limp in his arms, Eskel’s mind blanking and blind for a blissful moment. Geralt felt the pressure of Eskel everywhere, on top of him, around him, inside of him, leaking out of him. The only thing that could ever gather him enough strength to move was Eskel himself, and he didn’t really seem up to that quite yet.

Or, well, maybe he did. Eskel didn’t even soften a little bit in Geralt, his hips already rolling deep and slow inside Geralt. His bones sang out to Eskel in ecstasy, yearning for him, craving him.

Geralt’s cock rested hard once more on his stomach, steadily dripping his arousal into a little pool. Eskel’s hands tightened on his hips and pulled him into each and every thrust, slow and hard and deep and addicting. Eskel couldn’t keep his hands still as he dragged his cock inside of Geralt, only just barely shifting back and forth as he tried to stay buried in his tight, wet heat as much as possible.

“Ger-nnng,” Eskel gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut as he felt the pressure of Geralt around him clench and smother every last bit of him with every soft move of his cock. Geralt smirked and bore down farther, tightening his hold on Eskel’s arm and around his neck as he pulled him down so that their faces were held with only the space of a breath between them.

Geralt could feel the tight coil of release draw taut as he dragged his hands down Eskel’s chest and to his own cock. Eskel’s eyes followed him, branding his skin with the fire behind them, watching as Geralt took himself in hand. Geralt shuddered as his climax came closer and closer into view, only needing just a little more, a little something to push him over the edge-

“Fuck, Geralt, I...I can’t hang on much longer…” Eskel ground out, brushing his nose down over Geralt’s and pleading with his eyes.

“Let go, Eskel. I want it, please-”

And then he did. Eskel thrust hard and deep a handful more times as he hit his peak, his cock pressing against that devastating bundle of nerves nestled deep inside of Geralt each and every time. Oh, and then when his release finally overtook him once more? Gods, his cock flexed and spilled and hit Geralt like a punch in the gut over and over and over, until finally Geralt too climaxed with his cock in his hand. Long stripes of spend spilled and painted his chest while Geralt groaned from low in his stomach.

The two of them laid there for Gods know how long, just lingering in each other, the scent of their combined arousals making them feel almost drunk from the heady way it went straight through them. Eskel was the first to move, slipping from the tight embrace of Geralt’s body and flopping down onto the bed at his side. Geralt reached out and tangled their fingers together while their chests heaved in great gulps of air, their minds still addled and off-kilter.

Eskel swallowed thickly and focused his mind on the feeling of Geralt’s thumb running over the back of his knuckles, back and forth and back again… “Gods, Geralt,” he murmured, peering over at him, “I’ll never get tired of that.”

Geralt chuckled without opening his eyes, already feeling the threads of consciousness being steadily pulled from him. “You better not. I plan on getting fucked like that until I die.”

Eskel hummed and reached out blindly with his free hand, groping for the spare scrap of cloth that he kept by the bed. Once he found the soft fabric he gently swept it up over Geralt’s stomach and chest, feeling the vibrations of his hum beneath his fingers. Eskel reached back between Geralt’s thighs and cleaned there as well, knowing that although Geralt would never really say anything about it, he wouldn't enjoy being sticky in the morning.

Eskel tossed the rag away and shifted underneath the blanket, reaching out to pull Geralt into his chest. “C’mere, you. Wanna hold you.”

Geralt grunted and rolled over onto his side, burying his face into the hair on Eskel’s chest. Eskel wrapped his arm around Geralt’s waist and held him close, pressing his nose into the silver hair atop Geralt’s head. Woodsmoke, spice, pine. Home.

Geralt sighed into him and wrapped his own arm around Eskel, snuggling in and quickly letting sleep take him away. Eskel felt the shift, the way that Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and his hips fell further into the bed, his mind finally quiet and his hands still. He pressed his lips softly to the crown of Geralt’s head and held it there for a heartbeat or two, pouring everything he could into those soft moments before he himself fell into the warm embrace of sleep.

[artxyra]

I'm not entirely sure that your taking requests (I'm only 68% sure) but if you are can you try doing a daminette fiction based on the song Karma (cover by CMKC) with some class salt? (Maybe even some sibling jasonette or some daminette (or maybe even both...?😏) if you can) Btw I love your writing! 💜 (And before I forget thx for doing my requests, the previous ones and hopefully future ones 💜)

Note: This fics original idea had Marinette being akumatized into KARMA, yeah that didn’t happen when I was writing this one. 

I've lost my mind The skies are crashing around me I'm left behind Smoke obscures all that I can see

“Oh, look, honey, our daughter made her first dress. Get the camera.”

A doll sits on the windowsill overlooking the growing garden on the deck. The doll has blue straw-like hair, bright blue color buttons for eyes, and a black stitched smile.

“Get out! You’re nothing but a pest. How could I care for such a child when you couldn’t do the one thing you brought into this world for.”  

The doll no longer sits on the windowsill, but now lays on in wastebasket. No longer did the doll possess the bright stitch smile. Instead, the face lays bare without a stitch in sight.

“Hey, what are you doing out here all alone? What’s your name?”

“K-ka-karma…”

A small blue jay flutters its wings.  

“I’m Jason. I’ll protect you for now on.”

The blue jay chirps.

A bullet sounds off. A small pull of blood surrounds the bird.

“No!” A thunderous boom goes off in the distance. Multiple sirens join the assembly of loud music. A young pre-teen holds the girl close to his chest, blood oozing out of her chest. A hand touches his shoulder. He shakes it off. Never letting go of her.

Beep…Beep…the heart monitor comes to life slowly. Waiting for the young child to test its system. There is no movement. Then there is silence.   

A dark-haired, blue eye teen, stares into the mirror. Her eyes showing no emotions as her body is littered with markings ranging from cuts to words meant to demean a person.

“Marinette! How could you take credit for Lila’s design?”

The mirror cracks slightly.

 “You have to be an example, Marinette. Your peers look up to you.”

Another crack.

“Marinette how you be mean to that poor girl at your school?”

Another crack.

“I thought you were our everyday Ladybug.”

The mirror shatters. All that is left is darkness.

Marinette stares frozen in place. The gloss in her eyes fading away as the glass falls to the ground, blood in her hand as fragments of glass pierce her skin.

She gasps unsure what to do. Her hands never close as she stares at them with fear. The blood continues to ooze out. The room does dark. A thump.

Her frail arms wrap around her legs tightly. She doesn’t move.

When she comes to, it's by the rushing sound of running water. A waterfall, maybe. She looks up and all she can see is white.

“Why did you do it?” A voice pulls her away from the water. Quickly, she turns around but is halted by a pain aching feeling shooting through her body. She lets out a cry.

“I’m I dead?” Her voice was hoarse, she couldn’t even whisper.

“No,” The voice chuckles. The knobs squeal to life. The water stops following, no longer hitting her in the face. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Her mouth opens but no words come out. She begins to breathe heavily like there was no air entering her lungs.

“How could you push Lila down the stairs? Here’s a taste to what Lila felt.”  One moment she was standing top of the stairs getting ready to leave, the next she at the bottom of the platform. Everything was hurting. Then darkness.

Marinette eyes flutter open, there the no hard tile beneath her like earlier but now cotton sheets and a blanket. She could feel her body move, one toe wiggle, two taps against her fingers.

“Jason,” She sits up pulling the blanket closer to her chest. There is no one there.

A wave of sadness washes over her. A glossy shine covers her bluebell eyes.

“Hey, hey, I’m here, Pixie.” The voice was comforting. She curls into herself. His arms wrap around her and pull her close. Whatever happened to her should have never happened.

He looks down, a soft snore escapes her lips. A smile appears on his lips. At least she safe and with him. No longer in that toxic environment.

A phone vibrates. It’s Marinette’s.

Jason unlocks the phone to see a series of messages. None of which are good. The hand holding the phone shakes. He tightens his grip. Slowly the screen begins to crack.

“You’re safe now.” He whispers into her ear. “Your big brother is here to protect you.” The remaining source of light turns off. He stays next to her.

“We are meant for each other M’lady. To halves on the same coin. You belong to me and no one else can have you.” Green eyes haunt her dreams. The cold feeling returns with growing darkness that was all too familiar.

She wakes up screaming. Tears rolling down her cheeks. There was no stopping the waterfall.

Jason runs into the room cursing himself. He knew he should have left but his family needed him for a mission life or death.

“You’re okay, Pixie, no one but you and I are here.” She continues to cry into his chest. He doesn’t mind the dampness he welcomes it. “It was a bad dream, Mari. A really bad dream.” His free hand caresses her hair, calming her down slowly.

“Todd what is the meaning of this.” His little brother asks over the phone. Jason watches as Marinette takes small bits of her food before swirling the remains in her bowl before repeating the process.

“It sounds like you miss me, Demon Spawn.” Jason jokes back, half into the conversation. He keeps his attention on Marinette. “Hold on.” He hangs up before Damian could retort. Marinette had pushed her bowl away from her and picks up the spoon. She looks at her reflection.

“Why would Adrien even spare you a glance. You are ugly, dull, nothing you would do would ever get his attention.”

“Argh.” Something snaps. It was the spoon. Breathing heavily, Marinette staggeringly gets out of her chair.

Jason helps her to the floor. He could see that she wasn’t going to make it far in her current condition.

“Am I not pretty enough.” Jason barely caught her words. He must burry any of the anger he has for those idiots for the sake of his sister.

“You’re magnificent, Pixie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He replies. His phone continues to ring with the familiar ringtone, He ignores it.

“Thank you, Jay-Jay.” Marinette closes her eyes. The ringtone lures her to sleep.

“You’ll never be a real designer, Marinette. One word from him and Gabriel will have you blacklisted from the industry before you even put your name out there.”

“I like to see you try.”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, an aspiring fashion designer, has been blacklisted on the bases of copying designers for her work.”

“I told you, Dupain-Cheng, you should have back off when you had the chance.”

Marinette curls into herself as the memories flood back into her mind. She’s alone. The old TV flickers in the darkness. The channel continues to change as the voices, tone, and display changes with each click of a button.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” She murmurs to no one. Her grip tightens around the blanket.

“What the fuck, Todd? You’ve been gone for days on end and being all secretive.”

“I didn’t think you care about my well-being, Demon. I have a life outside of this shithole.” Jason says as he cleans the barrels of his guns. His younger brother growls. He could only raise an eyebrow.

“I will find out what you’re hiding Todd.”

“Good luck with that.”

Jason picks up his guns and disappears within the shadows of the Batcave.

“Pixie,” The door creaks open. A little bit of light enters the room. Marinette is sleeping on the couch, the blankets cocooning her. Everything seems fine.

“So, she’s what you’ve been hiding.”

“What the fuck?” A gun cocks.  

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“No, my sister in everything but blood.”

“Hmph…why is she here?”

Jason sets his gun down and shuts the door. He turns to Damian; the teen genuinely was curious.

“She needs helps and I’m the only one who can help her. Gina tried but the mental and physical abuse became too much to manage. So, for her protection, Gina sent her to me.” Popping the cork off the bottle, Jason pours himself a drink.

“Does father know?”

“If he did, she would have been adopted in the family by now.” Jason pours himself another glass. Damian scoffs at the out his brother is drinking.

“Ladybug is hereby declared an enemy of Paris.”

“Tikki, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  

“What do you mean you’re no longer going to be Ladybug? You’re a true creation soul. A true holder of the ladybug miraculous.”

“Find someone else to do it, Master. You heard the Mayor, I’m an enemy of Paris, no better than Hawkmoth and Mayura.” She hands him the ladybug miraculous. Her red eyes close at the thought of losing her best friend.

Marinette wakes up sweating, her hand immediately reaching for her ears. Nothing. She sighs and curls back up.

“She’s been through a lot Damian, whatever scheme you have in mind leave it be and forget about it.”

Swinging her legs over the bed, Marinette sneaks over to the door. The door opens just enough for her to rest her hand against the doorframe.

“Jay-Jay…” Her voice was a whisper again.

Jason pushes the bottle and glass to the side. He’s by her side examining her. She wasn’t hurt.

“Pixie, you should be sleeping.”

“I had another nightmare.” She tells him. “Who’s your friend?”

Damian shuffles in place. She’s so tiny compare to any of his sisters like the wind could just blow her over without even trying.

“I’m Damian.” He tells her.

Marinette gives him a curt nod. Her eyes lock onto his. They’re green. She could feel her chest tightening. No air could get in or out. The glossy look returns in her eye turn.

Sobbing Marinette screams out, “Je vais le faire, Chat Noir. Je vais le faire, arrête!” She slides the down the doorway.

“Shit,” Jason runs over to Marinette. She blocks her view of Damian. Her lock on the green eyes soon fades to blue. Jason’s eyes. She tightly wraps her arms around his neck. Jason rubs her back. Turning to Damian all while keeping him out of Marinette’s sight, he tells his brother, “We’ll finish this later. Your eye color triggered a memory. And Damian, do not tell anyone about her.”

Damian is frozen in place. So much had happened in the last ten or so minutes. He had met the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and then she has a panic attack, something clearly triggered by previous trauma.

“Okay, I won’t tell.” The youngest Wayne agrees but not without weighing the pros and cons. He left the small rundown apartment with more questions than answers.

Jason turns his attention back to Marinette, who’s sobs turn into sniffles. “He can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t hurt you anymore, Pixie.” Marinette buries her head into Jason’s chest. She takes a deep breath. She can only hope.

Now you've used up all your luck It's time to get what you deserve I'm holding out for KARMA I'm holding out to watch you burn

Years past before Marinette was completely healed. Gina would visit from time to time making sure that her granddaughter was okay. She was ecstatic to find that Marinette was healing even if it was a slow process.

“Are you ready?” Marinette turns to Damian; his green eyes hold so much love and care for her than the green eyes she had grown to hate. Nodding, she takes his hand.

Beyond the doors, a series of lights flashes along with shouts. Reporters are in a frenzy trying to get the latest scoop on the Wayne heir’s beloved. Never once had she made a public appearance.

“Yes, thank you all for coming and showing my family your support. Today marks a very special achievement, my young son proposed to his girlfriend just a couple of days ago much to my second oldest dismay.”

Jason disrupts Bruce’s speech by shouting, “Hey” from his location next to Roy.

“Please welcome my son and his fiancée, Marinette Karma Todd.” Bruce steps away from the podium. The doors behind him open to show Marinette holding hands with Damian. She grips his hand tightly as Damian gives her a reassuring smile.

In Paris, several people are thrown in for a loop. Several lawsuits were issued. Collège Françoise Dupont, the school board was not happy at the treatment of one their student, a student that would grow to become one of the most powerful women out there.

Adrien Agreste, who was outed as Chat Noir, received a sexual harassment charge and a restraining order. The Wayne’s were out for blood and wanted to add attempted rape charge and compensation for all the trauma he had caused Marinette.

Lila Rossi, who managed to keep a tight grip on her classmates was finally exposed. Apparently, her latest lie was about being the mysterious Damian Wayne’s girlfriend. That backfired. She was then hit a cease and desist order along with a restraining order. Marinette had won the war.

Alya, who never learned to check her sources, lost any and every opportunity in her field. She even lost her job because she published a story about her best friend being the Wayne heir’s girlfriend. Thankfully, for the business, that article was only hosted in Paris, but the damage was already done.

Marinette never sent anything to her adopted parents. They didn’t deserve her. She was their servant, someone to help with the bakery. Though they were better than her birth parents, she couldn’t find it in her to ruin their lives. Gina became her legal guardian and that was that.

“I’m so glad that I meet you,” Damian says to her, placing a kiss on her hand. Marinette giggles and pulls Damian in for an embrace.

“I’m the lucky one. You would have thought this would be my future.” Marinette gestures to their growing empire. It was small but with Wayne Enterprise and Damian’s Veterinarian business, they were doing quite fine.

“Can I offer you a dance, Angel?”

“I would love that.”

No music plays just the beat of their hearts as one.

Tag List: *View my Tagging System guidelines for how to to be properly tagged or removed.

Permanent Tag List: @vixen-uchiha | @i-is-mysterious | @kuroko26 | @maribat-is-lifeblood | @marinettepotterandplagg | @loveswifi | @ladybug-182 | @novaloptr | @elijahcrevan | @rebecarojas07 | @nanakeid | @mystery-5-5 | @sparkle9510 | @aestheticnpoetic | @toodaloo-kangaroo | @more-or-less-human-i-guess | @crazylittlemunchkin | @softlysobbingpostendgame | @purplesundaze | @fantasyloversblog | @susiej1118 | @chocolateherringtacofan | @tog84 | @thequeenofpotatoeunicornss | @slytherinhquinn | @i-wanna-be-a-ninja | @abrx2002 | @agumon1123 | @coralloverwinnerwolf | @sam-i-am-0222 | @princessanimeangel11 | @k-poplunardreams | @constancetruggle | @esperiali | @starlightshield | @itspiper25 | @bluesimani | @fandom-trapped-03 | @kawaiigiantjudgefish | @pawsitivelymiraculous |  @kadmeread | @our-preciousss | @greenloverforever05 | @animegirlweeb | @souleateralicestein | @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen

Unspecific Tag List: @g-arya | @jardimazul | @jeminiikrystal | @zalladane | @bluerosette23 | @dast218 | @midnighttreesgaming | @myazael | @pepelachanel | @storyecho | @thezestywalru | @dreamykitty25

[chikoriita]

A couple months ago, I commissioned the very talented @rosekasa​ to visualize Emrys, one of the main characters of my original writing. She did an amazing job, and I wanted to introduce Emrys to you all. I’ve spent the last few years tinkering with the idea of publishing. This past year has helped me realize that it could be a possibility. 

I’ve put a small excerpt under the read more, and I’d love to see what y’all think.

The early morning’s sun shone on the water, reflecting the clear sky above. All was calm on the surface of the Samundhar save for one boat gliding through the water. The sole passenger, young Emrys Gale, watched the slow waves splash against the side of the ferry. Few people traveled the routes between the isles this early on a Sunday morning. On a normal day, the chatter and din of noblemen traveling from their homes on the outer islands to their destinations toward the center cluster would overpower anyone’s thoughts. Emrys wished it was the case that morning. Unfortunately, all was calm except for her stomach. It began to twist and twist in on itself in anticipation.

This morning started with Maryl, the Galewind majordomo, angrily knocking on her door. She opened the door to find the irritated old man holding a summons with the Minister’s seal. He gave her a look last given when he found her playing in his precious garden. He dropped it in her hand and left muttering about retirement. As if it were her fault the Minister of Lyria summoned her to the capital for an important meeting. That day. By noon. Without delay, Emrys readied herself and caught the first ferry out to Dweeparaj, the capital city of Lyria.

The Lyrian archipelago was located in the Samundhar, a sea between the two halves of the Millennium Coalition. Made up of close to one hundred islands, winding ferries connected them to one another. Legends claimed that once, many eons ago, all the islands stood together as one large island of Lyria. A calamity broke the land apart, tearing the Lyrians away from their kin and countrymen. To remain one with their people, they built the boats to keep their country as one.

Centuries later, Lyrians continued these traditions on the decks of boats sailing on the wide sea, between the islands and beyond. Every islander remembered their first time visiting a neighboring island, standing above the open water and free as a bird. Emrys treasured the memory of her first sail to Dweeparaj. Her father took her with him on the ferry to the capital as a treat. At the time, no one trusted the new ferry system, but now it was the largest infrastructure improvement for the archipelago.

The ferries were an elaborate system of close to one hundred routes built on the Lyrian core value of punctuality. The phrase ‘Time is of the essence’ was the national motto. Clocks lined the walls in every building and boat. Hurricanes could hit, but still at least one boat kept each route alive. Of all of the routes, the Capital Ferry stuck to a strict schedule. Not once had Emrys seen the ferry deter from its schedule. Not until this morning that is. Today, Emrys’ ferry took its time at each stop, delaying the route.

The captain and the attendant were not worried. After all their years of ferrying, they could take a small break on a Sunday morning. After all, the Senate was in recess, and no one regularly went to the capital during these weeks anyway. Their only passenger seemed to be low maintenance. The attendant did not hear one grunt or grumble on this late morning. But his poor eyesight missed the murderous glares that passenger sent his way. Even one as easy going as Emrys Gale was at the end of her tether.

With every stop, her stomach tightened a fraction more. What did the Minister want? Her father was set to return any day to Lyria. His business could wait, could it not? She pulled out the raggedy pocket watch her father gifted her. The ferry should have reached Dweeparaj almost an hour ago.

Why were they not moving fast today of all days? Unlike her fellow citizens, she did not require punctuality at every juncture. In fact, her daily routine was quite flexible. Her days could be stopped completely for all she cared. But not this day, not with the summons in her pocket. Emrys tucked the watch into her shirtwaist pocket, tugging at the string. No one was too careful on the main island. A large city like Dweeparaj crawled with pickpockets and hustlers waiting to prey on unsuspecting young girls. Her hand slid along her dupatta to her aunt’s dagger.

Maya gifted it to her once she began traveling to Dweeparaj on her own. “Pacifism and non-violence are excellent morals, but if it is your life on the line, you will need violence.” She understood her aunt’s sentiments but secretly wondered if she gave it to upstage her father’s pocket-watch gift. What twelve-year old preferred a watch to a knife?

“Do not worry, wrongdoers will carry my mark if they target me and live with that forever,” she joked, dragging the handle down her cheek.

Her aunt did not appreciate her humor.

She twisted the crumpled summons in her hands. Anxiety only wrinkled it further. A small bump jarred Emrys from her thoughts. They had finally reached the city. The ferry swayed side to side as it glided onto the station dock. The frazzled attendant finally registered the delay they faced and stood to quickly escort her off the ship. Emrys hesitated. If she stayed on the ferry, four stops later, she would return home. Staying on the ship could mean safety in ignorance. But it would be a short-lived respite. The Minister was not a man to ignore. What did he want with her of all people?

"I need you to get off the gangplank, madam!” Emrys blinked. Had she already reached the end? Her feet decided for the rest of her - all of her will see the Minister today. After all, what was so urgent that she needed to come that day to Dweeparaj? We serve at the pleasure of our country, thought Emrys as she stepped off the plank.

[writeblrfantasy]

excerpt from a council of golden swords: tattooed cairic king

planned this scene weeks ago, forgot about it, enjoyed writing it immensely. poor kayani, they're so in love

anyway i hope you love this as much as i loved writing it, acogs has been kicking my ass this week and this was a nice battle won

~

Asma crosses her arms. “Take off your shirt.”

Kayani chokes on their own saliva. “What?”

“I’m going to paint you. Take off your shirt.”

Kayani stares at her, open mouthed, a thousand indignities resting on their lips. Asma taps her foot, paintbrush held between two fingers, frowning impatiently. No excuse, no argument, no plea will ever sway her. She is unmovable.

Kayani stares at the floor and loosens the laces of their shirt before whipping it off. They ball it up and stand there holding it until she snatches it from them and tosses it on the sofa. “Sit on the stool,” she says, “and for Cai’s sake, stop looking so stiff. Actually look like you want to be here. You don’t even have to smile. Just look a little less queasy.”

Queasy for a different reason, Kayani thinks, but obediently sits on the wooden stool in the center of the red, blue, and gold room. The yearly trip west, spent in close quarters with almost all of the Cairic army, has driven the modesty out of them, but everything is different with Asma.

She sits on the ottoman and drags her easel closer to her, a tray of paint pools sitting beside her on the sofa. The easel legs scraping against the floor makes Kayani startle. “Relax,” she orders in a tone that’s anything but relaxing.

Kayani folds their hands and tries not to slouch. The hairs that itch when they fall into their eyes will be the least of their worries over the next few hours. Why else would Asma paint them shirtless if not just to torment them?

Once Asma has everything apparently set up to her standard, she looks up and rakes her eyes over Kayani’s torso. Her breath hitches. “You have so many tattoos. I forgot you would.” Her voice disturbs the quiet of the room, breaking a sacred peace, or however peaceful the two of them alone can get.

“Isn’t that why you wanted to paint me shirtless?” Kayani asks. “Why else would you?”

She hides her face behind the canvas and doesn’t bother with an answer. Kayani prepares for a long set of hours filled with waiting, an aching back, and keeping their walls firmly up.

After ten minutes of silence, Asma working quietly, she asks, “What does that one on your chest mean?”

Kayani resists the urge to look down and earn themself their first don’t move, idiot. They could trace the lines of the * in the darkness, in their sleep. “The death of my mother.”

She gasps. “You got tattooed when you were just a child?”

They shrug. “I’ve known some babies who got tattooed after birth because of a difficult or scary pregnancy, complications that should’ve killed them. Parents, too. We use our tattoos to cope with many things, many emotions, but prominently grief. For many people, the experience itself of sitting there for ten hours while a needle pokes into your skin—it helps.”

“By enduring pain?” Asma asks.

Kayani shrugs. “Some people find solace in pain. It’s something real they can grip onto.”

“That’s the funny thing,” Asma says, peering out from over the canvas. “It isn’t.”

Kayani’s eyes drift to the tattoo on her forearm, she follows their gaze and pulls her sleeve down. Kayani remembers it all too painfully well—her poorly stifled tears and cries while getting it, their own desire to comfort her squashed by the hatred in her eyes. It’s their fault she has it.

“What about that one?” she asks, gesturing to the wings covering their shoulders.

“Are you asking because you’re genuinely curious,” Kayani asks, “or just trying to fill the air?” They want to poke further into her reasoning, but they don’t want her to change her mind and throw them out. Alone time with Asma is bliss as much as it’s torture, and they’ll take every last bit of it.

“I got the wings one year after becoming king,” Kayani says. “To celebrate not being assassinated.”

She snorts. “Get better guards.”

“I am my own best guard besides Ajar and Samad. I didn’t want to trust anyone else. The palace guards on rotation can only do so much against an assassin hired by someone who was angry I became king and not my sister.”

Asma rolls her eyes, the soft strokes of her brush soothing to listen to against the faint chatter of birds. “And the one on your back?”

“You’re not painting that one. You can’t even see it right now.”

“Answer the question, dimwit.”

Kayani grins. As much as they love to nag Nikolai about being attracted to the ones who seemingly want nothing to do with you, they’re no less guilty. “I got the first part done after I survived the Trials.” After healing up upon their return, they went straight to the royal tattoo artist. They knew exactly what they wanted: Ajar and Samad standing side by side, blue eyes pointed to the moon.

The two of them are right outside—if Kayani’s quiet, they can hear them scratching at the door—but an ache for them runs through their chest regardless. Sometimes they’re convinced the three of them share a soul.

“I would’ve gotten the outlining done before I left for the Trials for good luck and gotten it filled in after I came back, but I didn’t want to deal with unnecessary pain. I got the second part added on after I came back from my first trip west with the army. That time, I did do it in two halves for good luck, like many of my soldiers.”

Going to get those outlines and later the full lines done with their soldiers had been one of the most rewarding experiences of their life. Sitting beside ten others in a salon, all laughing or grimacing or telling stories to work through the pain reminded them that they could still mix with normal people. Winning the Trials didn’t make them special in the soldiers’ eyes, and Kayani liked it that way.

Their second back tattoo consisted of a light brown stag leaping across the center of their back, over the dogs. “Each trip after was another add on.” They’ve since added a grassy field for the stag and the dogs to rest in, stars for the moon, flowers and sparkles in a mix of reds and browns.

“Your entire body will be covered by the time you die,” Asma says.

“That’s the goal.”

As the hours go by, Asma asks, and this? What about this? That one? What are the ones I can’t see? Kayani answers her every question, shares every story, every memory. They don’t tell her about the one on the back of their ankle, small enough to miss. A golden paintbrush.

Finally, when the sun is halfway to setting and Kayani’s lower half has gone numb, Asma announces she’s done. Kayani wobbles to their feet toward the canvas, but she picks it up before they can see it. They sigh quietly but don’t question it—until she turns around.

She’s painted them in a background more heavily red than the wallpaper behind them. It brings out the red in Kayani’s tattoos, which are obviously the star of her painting. The edges of Kayani’s muscles are blurred, but the lines of the tattoos are as clear and sharp as they are on their skin. Their eyes are halfway open, tired, and Asma captured their faint smile at something she said, maybe some memory that took them away.

The sun from the glass wall behind them drips golden light onto light brown skin, a glowing backdrop for the tattoos. Kayani sat with their left forearm up, right hand holding that wrist, but Asma painted the opposite to hide the tattoo there.

Kayani has never had the eye for beautiful artwork, nor the time to study why people devote their lives to it, but this makes them reconsider. Not because it’s them, of course, they’re not that vain. Because it’s Asma.

“I will call it ‘Tattooed Cairic King’,” Asma says. Kayani can’t take their eyes off her nonchalant expression, the casual way her fingers grip the canvas. She completed this in a day and she acts like she’s holding a piece of cheap furniture. Doesn’t she know all of her artwork will be studied meticulously after her death merely because she’s a queen?

Not just because she’s a queen, Kayani thinks. Because she’s an incredible artist. They wish they had the courage to say so, but knowing Asma, she’d make some crack about their narcissism.

“Where are you going to hang that one?” they ask. “Which guest room or dining hall or office will get the pleasure of seeing my tattoos?

She fixes them with a look. “My suite wall.”

The floor seems to swim under them.

“I thought you hated me,” they manage. “As you pointed out, last time we were together you told me to never come into your sight again.” They gesture to the canvas. “I think that violates your rule.”

For once, Asma’s silence seems to be because of her loss of words, not dramatic pause or the bother of answering a question. “It’s some of my finest work,” she settles on. “I’d like to admire it often. Let people admire it when I’m dead.” She closes her eyes and runs her finger along the top of the canvas. “Also, I’d like to do your back sometime."

“What?” Kayani sputters.

“Oh, come on. If you can survive a needle pricking your skin for ten hours, you can survive sitting still for another six.”

That’s not the problem, Kayani thinks, but only nods. Cai have mercy.

~

kayani being shook by asma's ability to Art is me @ all the talented artists here yall rock

also if you noticed the tsoa inspiration for "and this?" then props to u

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog @chazzawrites @pen-of-roses

[do-you-have-a-flag]

Destiel shippers come get ya’ll juice!

SO @deadwright​ and I were inspired by Some Tumblr Posts and the twitter Roadhouse  Wedding stuff and keep writing headcanons about Thee Destiel 2021 Married Ever After S16 SPN Romantic Event Of The Season, so here’s that. 

Arranged in order of marital chronology and cutting out us keysmashing too much:

oh man imagine all the burgers they get catered for the reception dean got it done himself he would’ve been so particular about the catering bridezilla cas would probably be THEE bitchiest bridezilla

it's also definitely that trope where all the other hunters ect KNOW that that many of them and the wedding party are essentially a target for trouble so everyone spends the 24 hours leading up to the vows taking out every beastie who shows up on a revenge kick out of sight because they'll be damned if they let ANYTHING stop this wedding and Dean and cas are both having their marital jitters oh god im not good enough what if something goes wrong about mundane things while monsters are getting their ass kicked outside AWWWWWWWW for sure for sure, they’re hunter royalty this wedding is a big deal like half the attendees are nursing injuries but grinning widely

they don't do the can't see eachother before the wedding thing because you KNOW dean would be fixing cas' tie last minute

dean wears a blue pocket square to match cas' tie cas wears a FLANNEL SQUARE

I’m obsessed w the idea of cas giving dean a little bit of his grace in a small bottle on a chain for him to wear or like a wing feather or some part of him god the grace in a bottle breaks me every time in fic dean probably builds cas something but every time i try to think of something specific i choke up

i was thinking like what if trading grace is as close to a romantic gesture as angels have and he's like..... technically i left some grace behind in your mark when i dragged you from the pit and dean is like ARE YOU SAYING WE'VE BEEN MARRIED THIS WHOLE TIME? 

they are so sweet i’m on the verge of tears the ability to do anything by halves in their relationship was burnt out by like the second return from the dead moment they are too insane to be anything less than All In And Then Some

at one point someone was like hey cas do you want to run your vows by someone as practice? and he started reading what he'd prepared and it devolved into Biblically Grand Statements Of The Power Of Love And The Redemption Of - ect ect ect and it's because unlike the confession scene he's had TOO much preparation and overshot into uncanny angelic vibes he makes some edits because he know the expressions he gets when he reads it aren't what he intended

dean writes page after page after page of unused drafts, none of them are particularly floral

he does the cliche of ripping up his vows and improvising at the altar, something he gets mercilessly teased for because he swore he wouldn't but it classifies as a chick flick moment

THAT’S SO PEAK HIM OH MY GOD and you knoooooow you just KNOW it’s beautiful and emotional and everyone is crying

god the NOVELTY of dean being emotionally honest in front of people......im gonna faint YEA yeah... ONE TIME ONLY DEAL he thinks loudly at Sam's smug expression

anyway, at the wedding dean is the one who spends the whole ceremony with like crying cat meme eyes after the confession scene i’m pretty sure the minute the vows start cas is in the same boat USELESS HUSBANDS dean gets passed a handkerchief for his tears and immediately goes to use it on cas' face and they both laugh sob love the idea that everyone individually thought they were too tough to cry but they all broke at various stages yeah sam definitely starts to choke up just standing up there with his brother sam chokes up before the ceremony even started, like probably when he was pinning on dean’s corsage

anyway, Jack dancing with his two dads at the reception CAS’ BEST MAN / FLOWER BOY FLOWER MAN let him heelie down the aisle with the flowers LITTLE MAN GO NYOOM who makes him a little flower crown he wears with a proud lil smile? claire ofc, with those hair braiding skills? she makes it BEAUTIFUL flower crown: on nails: painted dads: MARRIED!!!!

when they say i do and kiss and everyone is cheering you can't convince me that someone doesn't let off what is either a gun or a dubiously legal firework in celebration jack pops a few lightbulbs in his uncontrollable joy

Dean and Cas can't let go of each other, it's at LEAST one point of physical contact for the rest of the reception PERIODT

CAN YOU IMAGINE THEM DANCING TO AIR SUPPLY

they definitely didn't do the wedding gifts thing but a few mysteriously show up anyway; discuss waffle iron from sam bc he remembers the becky incident meanwhile claire gets them flavoured lube because she’s an insane little mean girl she gets them a sampler package with like novelty flavours, gotta spring extra for a wedding PIE FLAVOURED LUBE

it’s gonna be the party of the century omfg you KNOW it! that dancefloor going OFF the BAR is FLOWING

dean gets dragged up onto the bar to make a speech and there's a moment at the end where he drags cas up there too and they're being playfully yelled at not to scuff it and there's hooting and catcalls as dean and cas kiss and dean gestures rudely before almost falling backwards off the bar before cas grabs him and climbing down is less romantic or dignified but he couldn't care if he wanted to

meanwhile sam and claire are outside defacing the impala with silly string and lewd graffiti and tin cans tied to the bumper for the going-away oh it is one hundo percent a just married atrocity there's enough condoms hidden in the car that they're still finding them months later

anyway wanna hear my disgustingly soppy honeymoon roadtrip concept? YOU KNOW I DO OKAY SO

you know at some point dean must have said some sad thing like for the longest time he never thought he'd live long enough to get married and the only circumstances he could imagine was hooking up drunkenly with a stranger at some vegas wedding scenario like that's the best he would ever get and he thinks it's mostly forgotten but then during their cross country honeymoon roadtrip castiel does in fact navigate them to las vegas and quietly mutters that the legal veracity of the little chapel on the city limits is dubious at best and they're already married so it couldn't do any harm and they get officiated by an elvis impersonator and a woman wearing more sequins than fabric throws cheap confetti over them

and after that they stop into every venue they can find that would be friendly to them to pretend they're eloping and at one point dean even pulls out the fbi id badges and the officiant is under the impression he's facilitating some sort of covert workplace romance 

one place is a kitchy little house that's clearly just the couple who run it opening their strange home to anyone who needs it and have been since the 70s and Castiel thinks for a moment when they're asked to pin something to the collection of stuff on the walls and ceiling before pulling the receipt for the pie they'd shared earlier in a dinner out and scrawling his and dean's name on it to be added to the clutter 

and at one point they stand ankle deep in a pond while some old hippie lady wraps their clasped hands together with soft fabric and chants something that dean knows isn't real magic but hey he's not going to tell her that and after the ceremony they sit on the grass and feed each other sweet bread to complete the binding or whatever and it's nice but it doesn't compare to the ranch where they both tossed their cowboy hats in the air and were given a horse to ride to their camp site

i thought about riverboat gambling for point one seconds and now i know in my bones that one of their many weddings was on a riverboat, they made the captain officiate after cornering him on deck in like five minutes, the crew sent them complimentary champagne and they threw fries at the birds following the boat while sharing it straight out of the bottle

if destiel can go canon multiple times they can get married multiple times CHANGE MY MIND THEY GET MARRIED SO MUCH the MOST married i just want them to get gay cowboy married

eventually i want them to end up at the beach bc dean has canonically never been to the coast their road trip is to get to the other coast

they send just married postcards back to sam from every stop sam stops feeling hurt he was left out of their vegas elopement wedding by the third wedding postcard he recieves sam saves them ofc bc GOD can you imagine them looking at the postcards on their 30th anniversary or s/t 🥺 showing their grandkids and recounting the story of each wedding there's a seashell taped to the last one

cas gets a terrible sunglasses tan and dean gets burnt on the tips of his ears and there's sand on sand on sand in all their clothes and at one point dean is blinking away salt water and cas is gripping his arm and saying something about the coral by them in the water and dean thinks that he likes floating beside cas a lot better than flying

dean has cas pick ice cream for them from a truck and hustles at carnival games enough to win them both big novelty foam hats and they both go back to their room and pass out immediately post shower sprawled across the bed and still smelling like sunscreen and salt water

dean tucks a little cocktail umbrella behind cas’ ear

cas spends most of the next day in dean's zepplin shirt and a pair of shorts they only picked up once they got there because neither of them thought to bring beach clothes, they sit on the balcony and dean sips his beer and idly plays with the ring on cas' finger and they play a game of what fictional monsters could they beat in a fight

cas’ true form is the size of the chrysler building he can fight king kong easy that's what he says and dean's like okay but what about mothra and castiel is like how would YOU defeat mothra and dean just goes "bugspray." GDJSGSHSGSHDSJ DEAN WOULD

in honour of misha putting his whole pussy into the role, cas wears a dress in at least one of their weddings

it's at one of those theme parks that's just historical re-enactments and people get their vows renewed there and there's costumes for the photobooth and the staff are like how long have you been married? castiel says two weeks, three days, eighteen hours, and twenty five minutes................ approximately.  and the photo is cas in a classical wedding gown and dean is wearing the veil with his old timey suit and there's a moose head on the wall behind them wearing the top hat he was given and they send that print with an arrow pointing at the moose with sam written next to it

i keep thinking bitch!!!! you KNOW WHAT!! you KNOW that dean is the type a guy who's heart races every time he feels his wedding ring/is always fiddling with it in the weeks after the wedding, like an anchor to remind him they really got married this is real he would NEED that physical reminder that he can have good things

he’s never ever going to take it off, the tan line will be permanent

how funny it would be if dean gets injured on a hunt and the monster guy is about to kill him and then the lights blow out and the monsters are like what was that and dean is just like "[spits blood] that's my husband." and nek minnit cas has just ripped through them thanks to teleporting in angel style and is just like Cas: [heals dean] "you're late for movie night" Dean: "Well if you'd gotten here earlier i would have been on time." Cas: >:| [kisses him]

cas is like i didn’t burn the popcorn this time you BETTER be alive to see it

[paralumanleadmehome]

It’s been quite some time since I’ve last joined a contest and I honestly missed this feeling of trying to figure out what to write, how to write it, and how to deliver it exactly as you need to to impress the judges. It’s been so so long and welp. I’ve grown rusty and this is definitely not proof-read but all the same, thank you to @queenangst and everyone who had made this possible.

You brought me back a feeling I haven’t felt in so long.

This is my entry to queenangst’s BNHA gen contest: Finding Home 

(please see under the cut as this has 3.5k words and could be very long)

Finding Home

o.

It started out as a legend – two souls separated at creation, two souls that make up one whole, two halves of one soul completed upon connection.

Two becoming one.

But legends are legends for a reason – mythical, mysterious, only with a hint of a truth.

Soulmarks began appearing even before the dawn of quirks –little symbols that litter the body, one that you could only call your own. One that only you could share to whom you so ever desire. It varies in shapes and colors, some being a butterfly tinged in red and orange, others an ocean wave the shade of green, and to some more, it covers a palm, a thigh, a foot. Unlike its legendary counterpart, however, a soulmark does not lead you to a soulmate. Instead, it leads you to one where you can feel whole.

A soulmark is a symbol of love and friendship given in trust and good faith – one that cannot be taken, one that only be passed on.

A soulmark is a symbol of warmth and everlasting connection – one that is stronger than flesh and blood.

A soulmark is a symbol of home – one that you choose for yourself.

One person can have as many as the stars in the sky and as few as the petals of a clover.

And Izuku? Izuku only has his own, his mother’s, and the black mark of one Bakugo Katsuki.

After all, no one wants to share the mark of a useless, quirkless, little Deku.

And so, however sacred, Kacchan had cut his own connection with Izuku, both of them bearing the ashen remnants of a once golden sun and a viridian shooting star – the pain of which Izuku found more unbearable than the explosions that kissed his skin.

And Izuku no longer believed in soulmates.

Not when the world was so intent on pushing him down and pushing him away, not when no one would stand up for him and with him, not when the only love and care he had ever known came from the woman who had loved him the most.

So Izuku never shared the mark on his wrist with anyone, never the light of the shooting star that brightens up the dark sky, never the stardust that falls on the earth, never the ray of hope he had held even in the darkest of times, keeping it hidden in long sleeves, wristwatches, and bandages. And at all times he keeps covered the blackened sun that rests on his heart, refusing to see the ashes of a friendship no longer alive, refusing to acknowledge the searing pain that would accompany the sight. Instead, as always, he keeps close the mint green lotus that rests on the base of his right ear, his eyes never not seeing it each morning, afternoon, and night – the one and only reminder that he is loved.

He is loved.

He is loved.

And he lets himself be content with that.

i.

The first of many soulmarks that Izuku will treasure came from the man that he had idolized his whole life.

Yagi Toshinori, for all his time as the Symbol of Peace (and more the time he had spent alive), only carries with him four marks, not counting his own. Izuku doesn’t ask when he sees. He doesn’t think it is polite to, especially when most people aren’t interested in bonding with a quirkless child (and although All Might already knew he was quirkless and didn’t deny him this chance to train, the man’s initial denial of his dream still stings). He doesn’t ask about the faded crescent moon that rests on his collarbone (it isn’t nice to ask about the dead, after all), nor about the black spaded horse on his left ankle (he was shocked at first, upon seeing this lost connection, and his heart ached at the thought that even All Might had to bear the pain of losing someone he had once loved so dearly). He doesn’t ask about the violet sigil of a fish on his shoulder blade nor the diamond glasses near his scar. He doesn’t ask about any of these things.

Instead he asks about experiences – what was it like to be a hero of his caliber? Was he ever afraid of anything? Was there ever a time that he was unable to save someone? What was he like as a student? Did Dagobah Beach mean something special to him? Things that the world weren’t privy to – things that he didn’t know were personal.

Things that would’ve only been known if All Might had chosen him as his soulmate.

And All Might did.

One day, at Dagobah Beach, after the world had finally met the man behind All Might, Toshinori Yagi had offered his ocean blue sunflower tucked on the opposite side of where the faded moon resided and had asked Izuku if he had wanted to carry his soulmark.

And Izuku… flinched.

Because to hold another’s soulmark would mean to be aware of them at all times – to feel their warmth despite the distance, to know with one brush of a hand the feelings that lay in their hearts, to give them comfort even in the presence of an absence.

To bear a soulmark is to be eternally connected.

And Izuku had been burned by the loss of it.

And he is scared, afraid, terrified – because to be All Might’s successor is one thing. To be given his quirk and his legacy is a dream come true but to be his soulmate? To be near him? To know him and be known by him in return? It’s terrifying.

And yet… and yet… Izuku takes this fear and lets it be known.

In quiet whispers, jumbled words, and a steady stream of tears.

Because deep down, Izuku longs to be connected.

And it is in the act of letting someone close does he remember what it feels like to be loved.

ii.

The second one, surprisingly, came in the form of a little girl.

A quiet, frightened, injured little girl who had ran away from a monster of a man.

Eri bumped into him during his first patrol with Lemillion and this mess of child with a stature so small and eyes too scared clung to him for dear life – and Izuku’s soul ached.

Izuku took one look at the man with the bird mask, one look at Lemillion, one look at this little girl, and made up his mind.

“Eri,” he whispered, “do you trust me?”

It was a stupid question, he knew, but a soulmark is something to be given in trust – a treasure to be received in good faith.

“You’re good,” Eri answered just as softly, little hands clinging to his costume. “You’re warm.”

Izuku doesn’t know if Eri feels the same pull, the same fierce protectiveness that forces its way into his heart, and he knows that this is more his own desire to keep her safe than any other force telling him that she was a part of his own soul.

Because Eri mattered regardless.

And Eri was worth keeping safe.

So for the first time in a long time, Izuku removes the bandage that hides his own soulmark and he shows it to Eri.

“This will keep you safe for me,” he tells her, “this will let you know I’m here.”

In the background he hears the tense conversation coming to a halt, sees the way the man’s eyes turn to look at Eri, and he knows he doesn’t have time.

“This is a promise.”

And Eri stares at it for little while, hands reaching to the shooting star. “A promise,” she repeats, and with a little nod and hopeful eyes, Izuku places a finger on her arm, just beneath her sleeves, and let their foreheads touch.

The words come to him unbidden, the way words do when you give someone a piece of your soul – a promise to be fulfilled, a wish to be granted, a part of you that will forever be a part of them.

“I will always come for you.”

And he did.

iii.

Not counting his own nor Kacchan’s, Izuku has two soulmarks on his body.

One from his mother, another from All Might.

He didn’t ask for Eri’s and she hadn’t offered in return.

Eri was as afraid of her soulmark as much as she is afraid of her quirk.

Cursed, she calls the silver dove wreathed in yellow petals on her ankle. Cold, she thinks of it. It will still be a long way to go, Izuku assumes, but as long as Eri can feel his warmth, his presence, that would be enough.

The third one, interestingly enough, was in the image of an aquamarine heart, with its curves jagged and cornered, just as a gem so precious and true.

Kouta gave it to him as gift, as a thank you, as something for Izuku to remember him by.

Kouta didn’t ask for Izuku’s own soulmark, didn’t even breathe a word about it. Instead the little boy ran up to him, little arms wrapping him in a hug, and said,

“I’ll always be cheering you on.”

And when Izuku sees the way Kouta’s soulmark shine, he accepted it without a second thought.

And when Kouta pulled away afterwards, face pulled in a frown, Izuku tried to ignore the fear that stabbed his own heart. He wondered if he would make a world record, an ashen mark as soon as he had received it, but Kouta dispelled his fears just as easily.

“That felt weird,” Kouta said. Izuku blinked at him, his mind taking a minute to process, until he caught up. Then he laughed and laughed because he feels exactly what Kouta feels – the disappointment, the confusion, the curiosity… and the underlying overwhelming emotion of it all.

Unbridled joy.

The elation of having someone know you – of being accepted, treasured, remembered.

He also felt the embarrassment that followed as Kouta turned as red as his shoes.

iv.

The soulmark exchange with Shinsou had been quiet.

It happened on the night of their second year when they both stumbled upon each other in the kitchen at the forsaken 2am hour did Shinsou spring up the topic.

“You don’t have that many soulmarks, do you?” the question was genuine, as far as Izuku can tell, and although the boy was rough around the edges, he knew it was due to the fact that Shinsou had so little support in life and was untrusting of all that Izuku had felt a kindred spirit in that regard.

They have observed the people around them, of course, and have noticed that everyone at least had five. A family member, a best friend from childhood, a classmate they never got lost in contact with.

Izuku stole a glance at the back of his right hand, at the blue heart settled at base of his forefinger and thumb and hummed an agreement. “No, I don’t,” he agreed, letting stiff fingers be warmed by his tea. He doesn’t return the question to Shinsou, knowing that it was a touchy subject for the other boy, but he did wonder, “Why do you ask?”

They don’t talk about it much, these colorful marks on their skin. They don’t talk about how a brush of hand over the little symbols can feel as warm as an embrace, how fear isn’t so scary when someone else sends you courage, how silence isn’t deafening when someone knows to listen.

It is in moments like these that they listen.

Izuku listens to Shinsou’s own quiet humming, the way the gears in his mind seem to move, the way he figures out how to phrase the words he wants to say next. And Izuku has been thinking about it – had been for the past few months.

Will his classmates ever want a piece of his soul?

He could tell that Uraraka does. He could tell that Iida would want one, too, but a soulmark is something that’s rarely asked for due to its sacred nature – it is freely given, after all, and never to be taken lightly. And Izuku had never offered. He had wanted to, of course, but he knows how messy his mind can get. He knows how anxious he can be. It’s why he had given his to Eri in a pace that is both hidden and seen, something she had to reach out for so she could feel. Izuku could not yet know what Eri is thinking or feeling, nor will he ever have inkling to unless she so desired, and Izuku is completely fine with that.

After all, a soulmark is a connection of souls – but it didn’t have to be an exchange. What it did mean though is that for one who bears the soul of another is to be aware of them – to be able to feel their warmth and develop an understanding of their soul. It is not to read their minds nor to know everything about them, but it is about the intimacy of knowing someone and being known.

A commitment.

A promise.

Like an artwork waiting to be completed, like a dance you can take to heart, a soulmark is connection that bridges the gap between someone you know and someone you choose forever.

“I don’t get it,” Shinsou finally said, and Izuku turned his eyes to him, the question lost in his tongue. “You have a strong and flashy quirk, you have so many people who love you and would fight the world for you, heck Uraraka and Iida would probably murder someone for you if you ask them, and yet you don’t have their marks and… they don’t have yours. I know I’m not good at this thing but at the very least, people give their marks away as easy as they’re giving candy. And you guys are pretty close, so I don’t get it.”

And the pain of burning that bridge is the same as losing a piece of your soul. Izuku absentmindedly reaches for his heart, the ashen remains of Kacchan’s soulmark embedded on his skin still, and he tries his best to forget.

Izuku looks instead at the clock in the kitchen, noting that it’s only 2:17am, and asks if Shinsou would like to listen to a story.

And they left the kitchen at 5:00am, only to crash in the couch, heart heavy yet full, mind settled and secured, souls at ease, and both boys sharing a mark they never expected to kiss their skin.

v.

The night Izuku had laid bare his soul for someone else to see, when it was him who had reached out first before someone else had offered, when he had done it so willingly and freely, it felt as if something has shifted within him – and in all the remaining years he had spent in UA, he was able to garner a couple more soulmarks for his own. He finally had the pink milky way that was Uraraka’s, the red lighting storm that was Iida’s, and Todoroki’s fiery white snowflake.

And to think that before all of this, before meeting All Might, before knowing these people and being known in return, Izuku was afraid and alone – afraid of the vulnerability that came along with letting people in.

To think that all he had ever thought about when he thought of soulmates were fireworks kissing his skin, long fingers bruising his arms, and taunts and jeers haunting his every waking moment – but now he is surrounded by love and warmth. Now when he thinks of soulmates, he thinks of mochi in the common kitchen, tea in hand; he thinks of morning jogs and healthy breakfast; he thinks of cold soba and cats; he thinks of unicorns and sprinkles and little kids and coloring books; he thinks of training sessions and laughter and peace.

Now when Izuku thinks of soulmates, he thinks of home.

And speaking of home, he can’t wait to get back to their apartment and give his mom the biggest of hugs. They had always called even when he was away and even when they would consistently send little taps through their soulmark, nothing still beats the warmth of a real embrace – and this is what Izuku fixes his mind on as he cleans out his dorm room, packing away every picture frame, books, notebooks, clothes, and figurines. Graduation is in a few days and after that, their debut to hero society. None of them would have enough time to clear out by then.

Izuku packs away the memories, just as he did each item that reminds him of it, and keeps them close in his heart. He packs away the ten million headband, the plushies from the cultural festival, the cards he had received from Eri and Kouta, and he tries his best not to feel emotional. He didn’t want to flood the dorms one last time, after all, but he did think it would be nice to have Aizawa-sensei scold him for being a problem child through and through but ultimately, it was the knock at his door that helps him succeed.

A knock, quiet and soft, and he opens the door to find Kacchan standing at the other side.  

Their relationship had improved over the years.

Kacchan is… less angry now, more settled. He’s still fiery and explosive but he doesn’t lash out anymore. Kirishima, Kaminari, the Bakusquad had been good to him and for him and Izuku had never been gladder about it. He had long stopped dreaming of the day that their relationship would be fixed – he and Kacchan had grown up, grown apart, and even when they drift back together, he is well aware that it would never be the same way again.

He doesn’t ask for it to.

He loves Kacchan, yes, with all his heart, but Izuku now knows that love does not have to be reciprocated for it to be real – but to still be loved in return is a precious treasure he keeps close.

“Hey, Kacchan, do you need something?”

And Kacchan looks at him, face pensive, mouth opening and closing, thinking and grasping and failing to think of the words he wants to say, and something in Izuku feels warm. After some time, the other boy settles with, “Are you busy?”

And if it was at any other time before, Izuku would’ve dropped everything that he had been doing and say no, he wasn’t busy, of course he had the time – but Izuku’s eyes sway to soulmarks on his arm and he steals a look at the digital clock by his table.

“I have thirty minutes,” was what Izuku told him. “I promised Todoroki we’d drop by the store to get his favorite soba since they’re not available near his house. I have time tomorrow morning thought if that works for you. I can cancel the morning jog with Iida if – “

“Thirty minutes is fine,” Kacchan answered back, cutting his rumbling off. It wasn’t harsh or angry. Just… very Kacchan-ish.

“Okay. Do you waant to step in? it’s a bit messy though, I still haven’t finished packing.”

And when Izuku heard the small tsk as he moved aside for Kacchan to pass through, he knew that the other boy won’t mind his mess. He felt a little grateful at that, to not be judged within the confines of his small room. They were silent for a few more second but it wasn’t the kind of silence that would make him uncomfortable. It was companionable, to say the least, and Izuku began picking up the pieces he had left before Kacchan had knocked and continued his packing. In another minute, Kacchan was helping him.

“Are you bringing the bookshelf home?”

“Nope, Aizawa-sensei said I could leave it here. Are you taking yours?”

“Thinking about it. Mine’s too small and I don’t want to waste money on something I can recycle. Do you have bubble wrap for the merch?”

“In the third drawer by the study table. I have newspapers too if that’s better.”

“Oh, Kacchan, that one goes in the other box.”

“Why? What’s the difference?”

“All my signed books are in one place.”

“Just how many posters do you fucking have?”

“Oh, come on, don’t pretend you don’t have just as many.”

“I’m not a hero-worshipping nerd like you, dumbass.”

“Says the guy who zonks out at 8pm.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

“Kacchan, that’s limited edition!”

“I’m sorry.”

“…”

“For everything.”

“…”

“It was pretty messed up, the things I did, and I know sorry won’t fix this.”

“Can you pass me the tape, Kacchan?”

“…”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

“Please put this box by the bed.”

“Okay.”

“…”

“…”

“You’re right, I don’t have to forgive you.”

“…”

“But I already did.”

“Deku…”

“It won’t fix what’s broken and it won’t stop the sting from the soulmark but…”

“…”

“We’re better now, aren’t we?”

“…”

“Kacchan, we’re better now.”

“You missed the night light.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“…”

“…”

“And it’s only going to get better, right?”

“…”

“…”

“Of course.”

“You’re still a sappy piece of shit.”

“Well, I’m not the one who’s crying, am I?”

“Fuck you.”

“Whatever you say, Kacchan.”

[yconic]

"Divorce is a special kind of pain. It's like death without a body, " is what they say when two halves of a whole heart separate.

Tony never understood when he was younger, never extended the notion of two people who gifted each other to eternity in union splitting up beyond 'Just not talking for a bit.'

He looked at it from a small perspective belonging to a small person, as if the people in question were just two good friends who couldn't decide on what game to play, hurt each other, and needed space.

His parents had done it more times than he cared to count. The frigid silences and artificial prompt politeness between the socialite power couple Howard and Maria Stark could last for two days, or two months, depending on how deep the issue picked out that time ran.

Tony sat straight as he watched the clock tick away, dutifully counting the hours that would bring Maria closer to home from whichever elicit travel affair she filled her time with while Howard closes himself into his workshop, stewing in anger and bitterness that leak out from the door he's not permitted to trespass.

He learns to measure the gravity of their squabbles, - If it's a small argument, Maria picks Germany, France, or Spain. She sends a letter stating the duration of her stay. She sends Tony well wishes, with a touch of formality for a mother, and her name is elegantly plastered on the bottom in cursive.

When Howard fucks up, she picked China, Britain, or Italy, and she disappeared from the earth until she emerged at her like. Howard is Howard, - the relationship between him and his son was too cold for Tony to tell how his father was like without the disdain gleaming in his eyes, but the liquor cabinet always needed at least a daily refill after a spectacular drama.

He looks back at those moments and realizes, with a shade of pity coated in something more sour, mellow but active, that divorce was never an option for them, the cycle of co-dependency and maintaining legacy had to be kept no matter how demanding that task was.

He can't bring himself to be angry when he feels so bad for them. All that money, and they couldn't buy a second of peace.

It doesn't take long for him to realize his parents don't love each other.

Tony was young, but he was never a child. He was naive, gullible, innocent, - but he was awake. While he didn't clearly understand what love was, he looked at the unhappy frowns on the miserable faces of the pair and thought: 'If that's how love looks like I want no part in it.'

He doesn't love people for more than one night, - A full week if their company was good enough to distract him from the rich golden color of his whiskey that gradually tastes bitter, and more bitter every time. It's not love, he knows, - He keeps that special for his family. But the kind of feeling he has with strangers, with nobody's with a name, resembles what he knows of love too much for him to change meaning.

He won't know how "love" feels like. He refuses to be the caged bird his mother was, to take form in the monster Howard let himself become.

Then, life gives him Steve.

He nests into Tony's life like a storm with skin, hair kissed by sunshine and eyes filled with an ocean that the brunette longs to sink into. He has a boyish charm to him, an old soul that swoops Tony off his feet. It makes him want to slow down, even if he belongs to the future, to activity, to progress. He wants to sit and listen to the stories Steve has, told in a Brooklyn swird that gives character to every word.

Steve looks at him like Rhodey told him all people should look at him. 'Like they can't see the status, or the money, or the power. Like they just see Tony, and nothing more. Because Tony will always be enough. ' Steve looks at him like he hangs the moon for him.

Tony never stood a chance. He looked at Steve, and thinks: "Oh, shit. He's It for me."

He just knows that this one, this Captain, decorated to the teeth, hiding in awkwardness at this petty mingling, social climbing Gala, lowering himself at the bar because he didn't know anybody, was made for him. And if Steve clings to Tony the whole night, he agrees with the parallel drawing out on his part.

He doesn't leave Tony's side, arm snug and comfortable around his middle like they've known each other for longer than time itself, and Tony loves it more than he has the courage to say.

Steve looks at him when the epilogue of the night strikes, too soon for either of their likings. He's tall, broad-shouldered, strong but has the softest eyes in the world. It hurts Tony to arch his neck to stare, but he doesn't want to miss a thing. "I've... I didn't laugh like that since I was in tour. You made my night, Tony."

"It's nothing, -" Because it really is. Considering the sins to his name, the least he can do to atone some mistakes is make as much people as happy as he can. And Happy is a great look on Steve.

He does learn one thing: When Steve says something, it stays how Steve says it. "No, its everything, Tony. I didn't smile once since coming home, " he croaks, like the confession pains him, and Tony aches alongside him. "Everyone is worried about me, saying that, that I seem upset, or sad, or just, never happy anymore, but how else am I supposed to feel?"

"You can't let others tell you how you feel, " Tony soothes, without thinking, a hand softly brushing against Steve's cheek. A frisson zaps through him at the feeling of the soldier's stubble spiking his skin. Steve leans into his touch like it's the most normal thing in the world. Tony's heart grows. "It's not even in your control, so why should it be in theirs? " He understands how Steve feels. More than the world would care to listen.

"Exactly. So, if it's not too much trouble, " his shyness compliments Tony's smitten. "Would you mind making me smile again?"

Tony is, utterly, indubitably, irrevocably, without a shade of doubt, fucked.

He smiles anyway. "You know, soldier, I think I could pull some strings."

---

Their love is like rain in June. It's mellow and distractingly peaceful, makes their worry and everything that ever went wrong scarce away. They can breathe around each other even when they feel like drowning. For once, Tony feels like it'll be okay.

But Life decides to do what it always does when Tony finds something good. It takes, and it takes, until there's nothing.

Steve tells him about Bucky. About the fallen brother that vanished in the mission that stole everything for Steve. "Only one soldier fell off that train, but two died that day, " God, Tony is so worried when Steve talks like that. "It should've been me. I wanted it to be me."

Tony listens and he pictures Rhodey falling. Steve loved Bucky in ways he couldn't even hope to understand.

It turns out, Death is not something so permanent after all.

It's a lovely night for them when Steve gets that call. He's wrapped around Tony and holds him in his arms as if he'd rather go to war again than let him go and Tony's heart never beat so loud for anyone. He would have never let Steve answer if he knew that phone call was the beginning of their end.

Bucky's alive again, is reborn from snow and war and ashes. Broken, but alive. Held captive by terrorists and is unmade, undid, but still alive. Everything around Steve is lost after that.

Tong gives him space and resources, help, support, he gives everything to Steve like on their wedding day. He gives him his care and gentle hands and soft words and love with a heartbeat. And Steve is just... Too preoccupied looking at Bucky to notice. Tony feels like a selfish bastard for wanting his soldier to look at HIM instead of coddling his friend at every moment notice.

He wants Steve to stop suffocating Bucky when he already looks like he's just inhaling instead of breathing.

He wants his husband back.

That's why he deserves what's coming to him. That's his punishment.

They drift apart slowly, as most terrible pains start.

Steve starts spending more and more time around the mental help facility Bucky asked to be enlisted into after his hasty return that had everyone clutching at their pearls. He wants to do it alone, Tony figures easily, starves for a journey he wants to walk himself, for the kind of autonomy only a man who lost it for too long craves.

His bitterness aside, Tony marvels at how similar they are. Maybe In another life, he and Barnes would've made a handsome pair of kindred souls.

Steve doesn't agree. He looks sickened, struck even, at Tony for having the Gall to suggest maybe Barnes would be more responsive if he talked with someone who had mirroring experiences. "God, Tony, you don't... You're not a soldier. You're just a man. You've been through pain, sure, but not like Bucky. No one went through what he did. I'm honestly speechless you ever thought you could compare."

Steve says that, it's why it hurts so bad. The man who swore he'd walk back into the hellfire of war just to find the people who hurt Tony and tear them apart.

The man who couldn't be moved by anything. No nightmare, no night terror, no panic attack, no argument. Nothing convinced Steve to leave. He stayed through it all.

The man who cried relentlessly when Rhodey walked Tony down the alter because 'He couldn't believe how lucky he was to marry someone so beautiful.'

The man who hasn't written Tony a love letter every morning like he used to do in over a year.

The man who spent more time sleeping in hospital rooms than in their bed.

The man who used to not go even one day without saying "I love you". Tony can't even remember the last time this sentence was spoken between them unless he said it first.

The man who agreed to couple therapy, then acted like it rained the next day.

Tony would will himself to shove this under the rug. To put a blind eye to it, to make it work, to ignore Rhodey's disapproval and Pepper's warm worry, to push away the pain blossoming in his chest, threatening to overspill.

But this man adopted a child with him.

---

"That one" Steve points to a small boy, thin but sturdy-looking even in the hand me downs from the orphanage, short limbs supporting a mess of brown hair that looks impossibly soft. His eyes are big and kind. Tony wants to take him home and feed him. "That one's ours."

His name is Peter, and he got into a fight with older kids when they wanted to stomp on ladybugs. He pushes back, but not unkindly. He's no bully. Instead, he takes the time to teach them why disrespecting and hurting nature is wrong, then takes their hands into his own, playing with the tiny creatures for hours.

Tony falls in love immediately. "Let's bring him home, Cap."

---

He can't do it. Tony can't look into Peter's adoring eyes, wide and brown that feel more like a mirror than anything, and see the fear he had for Howard, or the sadness for Maria. Tony can't handle looking at the love of his life and see another him.

Steve is Peter's role model. His knight in shining armor, his protector, everywhere he goes he sings praise to anyone who cares to listen. About his fearless father, his heroic antics that seem so tall for him. "My daddy's a superhero!" Tony doesn't have the heart to take that away.

And Tony loves Steve too much to see him become Howard.

So when Steve misses their son's 5th birthday party because he had more pressing business in D.C, Tony realizes bitterly, there's no saving this. People labeled him as a mechanic, a futurist, but he feels unworthy of both when he couldn't fix or foresee this.

There's no coming back from this.

Natasha doesn't voice it, but she doesn't need to. She tucks her phone away after a third failed attempt to coax, threaten, and guilt Steve into joining them, with muted movements, and Tony can tell she agrees.

Tony's grin is too wide when he looks down at Peter when he drags him off to paint his face, unaware of his father's turmoil. He laughs. He smiles. He celebrates. He has a nice day with his family.

He pulls Pepper aside and asks her to prepare his lawyers in the same breath.

This is why Tony knew love wasn't made for him.

---

Tony's always been good at hurting himself. The more pain he inflicts on himself, the less it'll hurt when someone else does it. So he unpacks the stash of letters he kept locked away in a seif, because they're prized to him, more than any sleek car or company, and reads them before he burns the bridge.

They feel like warm kisses and goodbyes.

'Left for a grocery jog, ran out of coffee. It's supposed to be cold, so don't you even think about leaving the house without a jacket! I'll know. Take care of yourself, even when I'm not there. '

' I love waking up next to you every morning. I love how you hide from the sun in my chest. I love how grumpy you are when Pepper calls for updates and all you do is cuddle me and whine. I love your messy bed hair and how you fall asleep in the shower.

'I never cared for jewelry before but seeing my ring around your finger never gets old. I still can't believe you said yes, but I'm glad you did. You deserve more, but you settled for someone like me. I can't believe it when you say no one would want you forever, I hate that someone made you think like that, that they let you go, but their biggest mistake is my biggest win. Jokes on them.'

'I can't imagine my life without you. Its all radio silence and broken static. Like an artist with a blank canvas and grey paint. You're the best damn thing that ever happened to me, and the fact that I have you means there really is someone up there looking our for me. I'm never letting you go. I love you, I love you, I love you, '

Tony stains the paper with tears as he listens to the song of heartbreak in his chest.

---

"Nat, " Tony pleads, choosing not to look at the tremor in his hands as he neats the papers he wants to see burn. "There's no need for that, come on. You know I love you, but I'm a big boy. I don't need you to hold my hand for this."

Natasha shrugs. "Indulge me."

"He wouldn't do anything to me."

"I thought there were lots of things he wouldn't do. Like stop loving you, for one, " she doesn't mean to be a jab, but Tony strokes his right arm and lets the hurt wash off. He sometimes forgets how blunt and terrifying Pepper's wife is capable of being. "Being paranoid is worth being safe."

They find Steve in the kitchen, sitting stiff and unfamiliar as if he didn't design the place himself. Tony swallows down the pressure in his throat and forces his eyes to stay dry. He wants to rest his hands on Steve's shoulders and pepper the lines of laughter on his flushed face with kisses.

But they're behind that now.

Steve raises his eyes to look at him. He's tired, run-down, missing the spark Tony marked as one of his favorite traits of the blonde. The life wasted from them, telling Tony that he's surviving, but not living.

Tony looks at him back and his eyes say, 'Me too.'

Steve's mouth twists into an imitation of a smile, tries his luck at mimicking something of the reassurance and ease variety, to hide his emotions with a mask of cracked peace Tony undressed a million times, just as Steve undressed his. He's always been good at reading the man. Or, was.

Steve's eyes fall on the documents Tony's holding with his naked hands, no ring in sight, and Tony watches something die in him.

The room drowns in silence for a while.

Natasha stands as a loyal shadow at his side, silent but sharp, hands folded in front of her crotch like a guard dog waiting to pounce. There's a forced calm into her breathing that puts him even more on edge.

Papers brush smoothly above the marble surface, ear piercing to him. Red hot blazing into white noise. It's the most terrible sound he's ever heard. He prefers his breathless, agonized screams in Afghanistan to this.

Steve recoils away, standing up suddenly and shakily, as if the documents are bombs about to kill him anytime now.

He turns his head, refusing to look at them. Refuses to accept they're real.

"Throw those away, Tony, " he says, voice edged with the kind of suffering that would bring Tony to his knees on other circumstances."Get them the hell away from me and never bring them up again, you hear me? I'm serious.''

Carefully, Natasha chimes in, tone mild and neutral. " Steve. Tony would like to speak with you about something, alright? Let's sit down, and talk like grown-ups, -"

"Where's your ring!?" Steve shouts, tiptoeing at the border of desperate and hysteric. Tony wants back into the cave, wants the water to take him away from all of this. It's hard to kill something that's already dead. "What did you do with it!? Why aren't you wearing it!? You PROMISED me, you promised you'd never take it off you JERK, you lying -"

"And you promised to love me until the day we die, but by the looks of it we both could use a lesson in honesty, " Tony cuts icily, colder than colder. His words are resigned, hollow, at the brim of mechanical. He thinks all the people who say Starks are more machine than men had a point. "I'm the fuck up in this relationship. What's your excuse?"

He thought he'd feel vindication watching Steve taste a fraction of his sorrow, that his destroyed look would make something in Tony retaliate. It does nothing. Tony loves him stronger, fiercer, and there's no win here for anyone.

His mouth tastes like ashes.

He just wants to stop, to sink in his bed and swim in ratty hoodies drenched in cheap but sweet cologne, smudged with paint of all shades, and feel Steve's arms shield him from the world.

He wonders if it'll keep Steve up at night, how it never occurred to him that the danger he wanted to defend Tony from might have his face.

"I'll do better. Tony please," Steve begs him, and Tony wonders if the situation is so low a man with his nature would resort to that. He's shaken by big hands engulfing his own for exactly a moment before Natasha intervenes, pushing the blonde away with a hint of regret. Steve recovers, looks right through her at Tony who wants to wipe his tears away. "I'll do better, I'll- I'll spend less time with Bucky if you want, -"

"Bucky isn't the problem. It's not about HIM, it was never about him, this is US, Steve. We, our marriage, our family, its been here longer than Bucky. I never wanted you to - to erase him from your life, I just wanted my husband. Peter wanted his daddy. Bucky could've been apart of that, but you just, you just pushed us aside,-"

"I won't do that anymore. I, - Do you want me to be at home more often? I can, sweetheart, I can do that no problem. I can be at home, I can make time for dates and-and for activities, I can take Peter to the park and play ball, - Do you remember that? How we used to play until he fell asleep? I don't mind, its no problem, -"

Something in Tony snaps.

"WE'RE NOT YOUR FUCKING CHORES," His voice is more roar than man, ragged, tight, pushed to the last limit. The garden of silent pain, fury, rage, and fear he's been harboring finally blossomed into something that seemed to shake the world. His body shudders. "We're not some,- some pestering tasks that you have to save your precious time to complete! Some fucking pets other people have to force you to care of, or some dirty laundry you decide to wear whenever you feel like washing! We're your damn FAMILY,- " A sob hitches his anger, and by the broken look on Steve's face, it's worse than any rage.

He narrows his eyes in disbelief, as if Steve was some stranger and not someone he gave years of his life to. A laugh is pushed out of his chest, choked, long, and terrible. "I would've ended this sooner if, - God, if I knew how much of a burden we became for you."

"Tony, Tony don't say that, " Steve's face is blotched red, painted in punishing torment. "I love you and Peter more than anything in this life. You're mine, both of you, how can you think I don't love you? I, -"

"Just love Bucky more, " Tony finishes, note flat, accepting, rehearsed. His voice feels as hollow as his chest when Steve flinches. "I'm just... I'm so tired. Steve,I'm tired, and- I can't do it anymore. My son, my baby is not going to be a burden on anybody. I can put up with a lot of shit, but Peter is my limit. I can't and I won't put anyone above him. Not even you."

Horror shines bright and clear on the blue eyes Tony loves so much. He spots Steve's finger tremble at his sides, notices the hesitant movement of his Addams apple.

Natasha was wrong. It's a rare occurrence, but it happened.

Steve never stopped loving him.

It makes signing the papers so much harder.

---

Steve lost Bucky to ice, snow, and time. Tony loses Steve to fire, anger, and distance.

---

Pepper is surprised when she hears Steve ended up signing willingly.

She doesn't want to ruin the calm air that finally settled over the emotion packed atmosphere surrounding the living room, currently stashed with carton boxes filled with Steve's stuff, ready to be delivered tomorrow as Tony wanted, but it's a needed talk.

"What did you say to convince him?" She asks, not demanding an answer but clearly expecting one. "I'd just assume Nat had him in an arm lock until he agreed, but, in all honesty, Steve would probably lose an arm than do what people tell him to. Seriously, I've seen anarchists with more respect for authority than this guy."

Tony laughs, too loving and too fond for this predicament. "I said you'd drag his ass through every courtroom in America and drain him of everything he's worth?"

"Mmm. Try again. I mean, that's a Sunday for me, but he's already heard that talk before." Giggles are shared between the pair on the couch, snuggled under fuzzy blankets with wine glasses that clink slightly. Pepper's face relaxes into something sympathetic, earnest. "Was it something Peter related?"

"No, " he shakes his head. It never crossed his mind once, no matter how hurt he was. It felt too much like what his father would do. " Peter is his son, too. No matter what happens between us. There's no changing that. "

"No one would blame you if it came down to that, you know that, right?"

He hums. Pepper waits.

"I asked him to let me say goodbye to my husband instead of forcing me to stay with Howard."

A sharp intake of breath settles something cold beneath Tony's skin. He closes his eyes, and accepts the wine Pepper pours in his cup, neither commenting on how it spills over the rim.

---

Talking to Peter is the hardest part.

He doesn't understand why suddenly there's only two people there instead of three, why he isn't woken up by two pairs of arms tickling him and kissing his sleepy eyelids every morning, why Tony's laughter isn't echoing through the house as Steve spins and twists him around in the living room dance session they had at least once a week.

Why, apparently, Steve now has a permanent residence in DC and can only see him twice a week as their legal agreement states.

Why he has to live in two different places and split his playtime.

Why Tony bought a new apartment and they had to move away, stretching the distance between them and Steve.

"Is Papa comin' home today?" A hand squeezes Tony's heart painfully tight at the small question. He looks down at his son, smaller than usual and playing with his fingers at his feet. His frail shoulder raise, housing an anxious breath as he awaits an answer.

Tony takes his tiny hand in his own, leaning down to press kisses on the back of his son's palm, apology on his lips. "Yeah, baby. He has to come and pick up his stuff. Maybe you can play a little when he arrives! I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. "

Steve sends Sam to pick up his things and Tony feels guilt bite at him for hissing 'coward' in his mind.

Peter is excited to see his uncle Sam but the disappointment when he hears a truck coming instead of the deep rumble of a motorcycle engine doesn't wash off. He soldiers on, smiles for Sam because as little as he is, he's careful with people and their emotions. His goodness is organic. He takes after Steve like that.

Sam's always been frustratingly talented at deciphering his thoughts, even when his face is emotionless. It's one of the many reasons why Tony thinks him and Rhodey match so well. "He said he's really sorry he couldn't come, but... Okay, his excuse is just sad, because I doubt you'd believe he'd rather attend a Zoomba class than see you and Peter. Truth is, he's scared."

"Of facing me?"

"Of hurting you."

"Yeah, well, he's already got that job done on the to do list, " Tony huffs, petty and aware. He tosses Peter his baseball that lands in the backyard, gently nudging him away from the conversation. They watch the ball of energy squeal in delight as he runs to fetch it, tension momentarily on hold. "Sorry. You don't need my shit. Let's just load this and be done with it."

Sam huffs. "Man, I've been involved with your shit for a while. Appreciate the feeling but it's a bit late for that. Trust me, me and Rhodey have in length discussions about it. I'm neck-deep in white boy drama, but well, sacrifices of the job. Not much you can do."

He's playful, Tony knows this, in the corner of his brain that isn't raided by anxiety, yet fear claws at him, sharp and cruel and unexpected. Coldness spreads inside him like wildfire, almost matching the thoughts racing in his mind. Sam and Rhodey were talking? Were they arguing? Had Tony harmed Rhodey's relationship as if he didn't wreck his own enough?

"Talk?" Tony rasps, pushes the words out of his constricted throat that seems to close more and more, synchronizing with his lungs. Sam's wide, concerned eyes tells him the surface looked as bad as the inside."You... You and Rhodey, you guys- Bad talk? You, you fought about it?"

His mind torments him by showcasing Rhodey yelling in Sam's face and Sam yelling back, both standing their ground like two soldiers on a mission and defending their friends like avenging angels. Rhodey is more brother than friend, he'd take his side, like the devoted friend he always proved himself to be, but he watches with a cut breath as Rhodey locks himself in his room and weeps.

Rhodey sharing his fate is Tony's own horror movie.

"...ony! Tony, deep breaths, come on, " gentle hands guide him away from the void his own psyche trapped him into, speaking in a low voice that plucks him back up little by little. "Come on, in and out. Focus on my voice, that's good. Listen to me, Rhodey and I did not and will not fight about this. We're fine, Tony, promise! We agreed, no side pickers. This isn't war, and we won't get into some life or death fight for your and/or Steve's honor, " he tries for a little grin. ''I mean, I'm not supposed to tell you, but we don't like you guys that much."

Tony laughs, at once, a pathetically small sound, but he's grounded enough to laugh. He basks in the lack of sound around them, like the silence of an after battle, suffocating, but free.

The quiet hangs in the air as they load the truck, too, not oppressing, but welcomed, with a touch of comfort that burns just right. When the last box is secured and road-ready, him and Sam stay just a bit on the porch to stare at the house. Because that's what it is, isn't?

'Is papa comin' home?'

There is no home. Not if Steve's missing.

"Steve said you can keep those, if you want," that sentence made Tony hunch his shoulders, releasing that bitter aftertaste in his mouth again, blending with something sweet, and igniting the warmth that pierced as deep as his very marrow. "Nothing he loves or wants back is in those boxes."

Yes, Tony wants to scream. I want to keep the sketchbooks he has for me. I want to keep the photo albums. I want to keep the paint, the charcoal, the brushes. I want to keep the stuffed animals he won me at the fairs. I want to keep his clothes. I want to keep the dances in the living room. I want to keep his love, attention, care, worry, sadness, anger, grief. I want to keep my husband.

Instead, Tony reaches for his back pocket, and squeezes his ring. It burns in his palm, almost begging him to put it back in it's place, or on his finger, where it fitted like it always belonged. His being feels it, as if connected, and he decides to even the odds in the cowardice department.

Sam holds his breath as Tony hands him the ring, with hesitance, with no indication he wants to. "You sure about this?" It's a careful question, painfully gentle, far softer than Tony deserves.

No. Not by a long shot. "Yeah, " he mutters, almost lost in the air. "It's not mine anymore."

Sam curls his hand around the ring, pockets it, and Tony wrestles with the urge to ask for it back. His eyes are trained to the floor, on his shoes, the fine leather ones Steve bought for him on their anniversary, he realizes.

He watches droplets of water splash and dissolve into the concrete. It's raining, he figures, he should take Peter inside or he'll catch a cold. He looks up to watch the dark clouds, and the senine blue above mocks him.

"It's okay, " Rhodey picked a good one, Tony thinks, as Sam covers his crying form away from Peter's eyes. "It's okay, Tony. Just... Let it out. You earned this."

"I tried, " he sobs in Sam's neck, sobs his demise his failure, his bottled cocktail of emotions that waited to implode. "I tried, Sam, I tried so hard, I swear I did."

"We know you did, Tony. We all know."

---

Peter wants to meet Bucky one day.

"Papa used to talk about him all the time, " He says, oblivious to how vexed Tony is hearing that. He apprehends himself, reproaching that he should be over it already. "He sounds pretty cool! I want to see his Terminator arm!"

"It's a Tin Man or Robocop arm, at best, " He smirks at the pout Peter throws his way, smoothing it out with his thumb. "And he's in a hospital. You and I hate hospitals, remember?"

Peter whines and makes his eyes larger, pitifully glassy and sad, just the way to wrap Tony around his little finger. "Daddyyyy, pleeeease!" He hooks his fingers around his arm, hugging it close to his chest and his lower lip trembles.

He imagines Steve behind him, smothering a laugh in his shoulder, egging Peter on like two conspirational buddies. He melts, pushing the rush of yearning back, and knows it's a battle lost. Peter is too lovable, too determined, too bright eyed.

He's morbidly curious, in a way, to see what was so special about Bucky that it made Steve want to trade that.

---

Bucky and Peter hit it off in a heartbeat.

The facility hosting Bucky is uncomfortably pristine, from door corner to ceiling. Everything is tailored and arranged with ridiculous precision, clinical, professional, boring, and detached, as most medical spaces are. His workshop dances circles around it in the personality field, and he tells Bucky as such.

He laughs at him. "That's an interesting way to say you're a chronic untidy mess."

'Chronic untidy hot mess, " Tony corrects, hating how easily he falls into conversation with him. He tells himself it's merely a distraction from the stomach twisting smell of medicine, stingy and sharp smothering the air. "How offensive. I demand a trial by combat. Peter, make him pay in blood!"

Peter turns to Bucky, unblinking. "Your hair's greasy."

A theatrical gasps spreads in the room from the blue eyed brunette. Tony beams, kissing Peter's cheek. "That's my boy. I'm sure Bucky's bleeding a lot on the inside."

"Yeah. You know, where blood usually is, " Bucky snarks, heatless, propping Peter off from the spot on his leg and putting him on the ground . "Why don't you go ask nurse Joy to give you some magnets for the arm? Your father and I gotta talk adult business."

"Uncle Clint says adult business is just gossip for grown ups. " Peter retorts, smirk on his lips, half raising on the edges of his mouth. He got the smugness from him, that much Tony will admit. Bucky huffs a laugh that mirror Tony's own and waits for Peter to be out of the hearing range to say his next words.

"I owe you an apology."

Tony blinks, hastily, and speaks before he can even register what he's saying. "No, you don't. Drop it." It comes off razor sharp, yet Bucky must be used to worse, because he doesn't falter.

"I ruined your marriage. There's no forgiving that, but I DO regret it and you'll damn well listen to what I have to say."

"Look, I appreciate it. I do. I'm not... Mad at you. You're just in the crossfire of this clusterfuck. There's no forgiving because there's nothing to forgive, " he murmurs under his breath, words quiet, but sincere, he realizes. "My failure is my own to carry. "

"Stark, relationships need more than one person. Stevie ain't exactly blameless in this whole thing, - Far from it, trust me, I let him know. He got the scolding of the damn lifetime, because he threw away a damn good thing. He made a home for himself and then demolished it. You didn't hand him the sledgehammer, he picked it up on his own dumb self."

"You know, your philosophy lesson would impact me better with wizard lingo. Throw in a riddle or a prophecy and I might bite. " Receiving a blank stare to his quip, Tony sighed, eyes downcast.

"Look. I called it off, alright? I lit up the matches, I burned down the bridge, and I watched it turn to ash. But it was meant to happen, one way or another. We were just too different. Guys like me break the world apart. Men like Steve put it back together. He'll move forward. Like he always does."

Bucky's reply is instant. "No, no he won't, " it's said with such conviction, with such a finality, that it has Tony freezing. "He'll never move on. Not from this. I've never seen him like that for anybody, hell, never seen ANYONE like that. You and him? That's a forever kind of deal. You don't need a ring and name change for that to last. You don't have a choice."

Tony swallows, slowly, unsure. "So what? We just keep path crossing like fate has us tied together, in each other 's range but standing on parallel lines, never meant to cross? This isn't a fairytale, Barnes. It's real life. And even if it wasn't, that's still far from fair."

"It is real life. Which means it ain't fair, Stark. "

Tony takes Peter home, cuddles him closely as if he might disappear, and eyes the empty area around the right side of the bed with a lonely glint that burns in the darkness.

---

The first time Tony meets Steve after the divorce, it's for Natasha's birthday party.

Time jumps from slow to fast, alters between stagnation and overwhelming in the first 6 months that pass after the finalization of their parting. Some days are agonizingly slow. As if the world wants him to stomach every second, consume every minute, where Steve is not with him, isn't his anymore, and choke on the pain that tastes just as sharply as the first time.

And in some, time goes by in blink record, not keen on giving Tony the courtesy of healing, of moving on, of according him the patience or kindness in adapting his feelings to his pace, to accommodate to the arrangement it dragged him in.

Concern crawls inside him regardless of how many times he buries it, makes a tangly nest right in his chest, and makes no effort to move. He doesn't blame Steve for not wanting to meet him, to look at him, to give him the chance of staring into the bright, baby blue eyes that hold everything beautiful in the world.

Tony's seen the wonders of the world, all 8 them, and they all pale put next to Steve.

He feels seething, scalding guilt showering him for thinking that. Because Steve is not his to worry over, not his to call wonderful, not his to care for. Not anymore. He repeats that like a mantra against his eardrum when Natasha asks him if it's fine if she invites him to her party, too.

It's the perfect excuse to see how he's doing, but Tony elects to ignore that and remind Natasha grown-ass people don't ask other grown-ass people for permission on what to do. "Do I look like Pepper to you? No? Then why would I order you around?"

A discreet smile reaches Natasha's features, exhibiting confidence but betraying relief. She loves them both, Tony knows, and wants her friends first, not the fallen lovers. "Just wanted to know if I should hide the sharp knives or prepare some spare sheets."

His face heats ferociously, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears, and all the embarrassment in the world is worth listening to Natasha laugh. Something sharp-edged inside of him brittles at the prospect of seeing Steve, thought, and he holds his tongue from saying something of that nature won't happen.

In the company of his solitude and shame, Tony wonders later, is he afraid of seeing Steve again because he fears the blonde is not doing okay, or because he is?

Later on, he sees Steve stand in flash before him, chatting with some faceless figures, hair longer than last time and flattened slightly at the nape, sporting a beard that framed his gorgeous face perfectly. The impeccable balance between scruffy and well-groomed. Tony itched to run his fingers against it.

"It's the divorce beard, " Clint muses, elbow jolting Tony in the side to show the humor. "Give him a few more weeks, and you'll see him shopping from the Hobo shop. All wrinkled shirts and ketchup stained clothes or something. Men are useless without their wives.'' He winks in Tony's way, but Tony is too entranced by Steve to acknowledge it.

His fists are bruised, Tony notes with a wince as he gets drunk on Steve's form with a studious gaze, creamy skin battered and laced in a cluster of dark purple, crimson, and small patches of yellow shaping his knucklebones.

A trail of question rests blistering on his tongue. 'What happened? Who did that? Who were you fighting? Why? Are you okay? Did you win?' But he closes his eyes and bites his tongue, knowing these questions don't belong to him anymore.

He gave up his rights to that.

But then, Tony spots them.

His breath is knocked out of his lungs in a silent punch, eardrums pushing out all the sound attempting to penetrate his ears. His fingers loosen so much they almost drop his water, feeling tingly numb. Tony's eyes, large and surprised, trace the circle of gold curled around Steve's fourth finger, gleaming softly against the artificial light around the dining room.

Steve is still wearing his ring.

But then, his chest burns and booms, heart roars fiercely behind his ribcage as he notices the thin string of black leather circling around Steve's neck, loose as a necklace, hanging low enough for Tony to eye the shape of metal halo looped right in the middle of the material.

Steve was wearing Tony's ring, too.

The realization left him petrified in place, more statue than man, in stunned shock as he bore into his former lover who only then noticed the brown eyes looking at him, transparent astonishment clear as crystal in his features.

It's like a spell breaks.

Tony's limbs move mechanically, on autopilot, running to the nearest room, getting himself away from what his body detects as danger. Urgency is packed on his step, taking him to the bathroom in record time, but Steve's always been the runner, more athletic between them, and his sprinting lands him a spot in the sleat Tony wass about to slam.

He's pinned to a wall effective immediately, feels cold tiles plant clammy kisses on the back of his head and neck. Tony almost hisses at the force of the slam, but before he can make a peep, his lips are stolen in a savage, fierce kiss.

It's pure desperation conveyed in the most unconventional way. Steve pounces on him, lips wild against Tony's own, pouring every emotion he went through in the past few months,- Longing, yearning, craving, hunger, desire, - his being, his love, his soul into that kiss, barely giving Tony the chance to breathe.

"St-Steve, " He gasps, head tilting slightly to the side to escape the ministrations, to gulp air, moving to avoid the chase at reconnection Steve is playing at by trying to capture his lips again. "Wait, wait a minute, -"

"Missed you, " Steve's voice is thick with want, hitching in the small puffs of air that came off raggedy and breathless, words melting over Tony's mouth. Steve's face glows with a blush he wants to kiss with inhuman greed. "I missed you, I missed you,Tony I missed you" Tony's fucked.

[catastrophe-jones]

Hagging Out

Cooking is the way I Work, quietly and alone, or raucously with those I love.

When I’m in need of restoration, I make soup. When my body aches, soup. When my heart hurts, I make soup. When I have lost, there is soup. This particular soup is half acknowledgement of the dying world, and half celebration of its bounty. Sure, I could make it in June -- but it wouldn’t be the same. Fall is when the world is singing its loudest, to me, inviting me to take in every last ounce of warmth and joy I can, before it’s time to huddle up against the snow, and sleep like seedlings in the dark, waiting for the sun.

Harvest time is golden -- and so is this soup.

Begin with a few winter squash (I used butternut this time, but acorn, kabocha, pumpkin... they all roast beautifully), scrubbed, halved, de-seeded. It’s all right if you don’t get all the tiny fibers out -- roasting handles most of the texture issues. Be gentle with yourself, here. There’s no rush in this Work, no stress.

Gild a baking sheet with a generous pour of olive oil, spread it around with your hands, and lay their round, full bodies out, cut side down. Put in a 400F oven for a good hour. This is a chance for rest. Reading a good book, maybe, or watching the birds at the feeder, or checking for chicken eggs, or listening to music while you put your feet up. Give yourself a chance to reflect on all you have gotten done, not all you have left to do.

When the skins have browned, and the squashes are soft, and their sugars are caramelizing on the baking tray, turn the oven off and let them sit for awhile, until they’re cool enough for you to handle. 

Peel them, if the skins will come off easily, but if not, scrape out the flesh and set it aside. Marvel at the way there is hardly anything else in the world this color except the fall outside. This glorious orange gold that will stain your fingertips and nail beds and cutting boards, if you let it, to remind you of the richness of your efforts, and the way things sometimes stay, even if you’re not expecting it.

In a Dutch oven, soften two cups of sweet onions and a tablespoon or two of minced garlic; let them mingle and marry and glisten. So what if the onions made you cry while chopping them? So what if something else made you cry? What are tears to a heart that knows soup is coming? Let them dry on your face, and stir your pot. Loosen your shoulders, unclench your jaw, breathe in. Breathe out. 

When the onions have just gone from soft, translucent and fragrant, when they are just beginning to brown and stick, pour in two quarts of the best chicken stock or chicken soup you have. Something made with carrots, celery, parsley, thyme, and rosemary. Something that makes your mouth water, on its own. You might worry that it will overpower the squash -- don’t. This is no time for worrying. The chicken stock and the squash will transform one another in their absolute union. They’ll transform you.

Add all that lovely winter squash, and let it simmer for an hour. Maybe even two. Let it sit on the stove and fill your heart and your home with the invitation to be hungry. Open your insides. Vulnerability can be anticipation. Good things are coming.

When the squash has begun to break down even further, when everything is bubbling, blend it however you can. A mixer, an immersion blender, a countertop blender, a food processor -- whatever you’ve got. Get it uniform and thick and then pour in a can of evaporated milk, and keep blending. Keep it warmed, if you can, and let yourself go, focusing on working out every last thyme leaf, every last onion. 

Standing over the stove with a steaming pot and a spoon is meditative. The Oracle of Delphi wishes she could breathe this in, I know it.

In the end, if you can, pour it through a sieve, press and stir with a rubber spatula, and strain out any last unblended bits -- until you’re left with something that looks a little like you caught the sun in your soup pot, a gold that’s velvet on the tongue, and warm in the chest.

Share it in a bowl, with friends, with family, with bread -- and if you want, add things like roasted chicken, pickled onions, tomato jam, hot sauce, fresh herbs. 

Even if this pot is just for you, enjoy the smoothness of it, the perfect silken touch of rich gold, a bounty for both spirit and stomach, and let it warm you against the darkening of the year. 

Winter is cold, but beautiful, too, especially with soup.

For @graveyarddirt, @luc3, @satsekhem, @thegodthief, @sycamore, @sagecake, @sparrowhearted, @sparrowinthebranches, and @anothertroy​ -- I know I’m posting late, but I hope you enjoy the spirit of the work. 

[annewritesfic]

Happy Endings Don’t Exist

y’all i’m so attached to this au-

anyways! based on chapter 58 of cress by marissa meyer!

tw: discussion of blood, violence, chess has a pretty gorey nightmare in the first section (you can skip the first few paragraphs and pick up at “Chess opened her eyes with a gasp” to miss it), blades, pain medication, mention of attempted murder/murder, hallucinations

word count: 2275

In Chess's dreams, she was being chased by a wolf.

She was running through a field of crops with thick mud that sucked at her shoes, fog soaking her jacket and leggings, her lungs burning and her eyes stinging and her heart thundering. Dry leaves crunched underfoot, quickly being swallowed by the mud, and something in the back of her head dimly registered that she was being chased through the sugar beet fields on the Benoit farm back home. Even as she thought it, something began to glow in the distance - the lights of a farmhouse. Her house. The house she’d grown up in, the house that had always been safe and warm. If she could just make it to the farmhouse, then everything would be okay.

But no matter how hard and fast Chess ran, the farmhouse didn’t get closer. It almost seemed that for every step she took, the farmhouse was three steps farther away. She might’ve been running for hours or days or months or years, but the farmhouse got no closer. Eventually, the fog closed in and swallowed the farmhouse, the warm glow blinking out of existence.

She tripped, landing on her hands and knees with a shout of pain, mud sticking to her clothes and caking her braid. The damp wetness soaked into her bones, making them ache from the cold. She looked up, and just a few feet away was the wolf, crouched low to the ground, eyes flashing with hunger and anger. Her hands desperately searched for a weapon on the ground, something, anything, as the wolf got closer, and closer, and closer…

There. Something smooth and hard under her fingers. It was surprisingly easy to yank from the mud. She barely had time to look at it, to register the blade glistening in the moonlight under the layer of mud, the sanded wooden handle - an axe - before the wolf leaped in the air, jaws unhinged, sharp teeth reflecting in the axe blade. Chess lifted the axe reflectively, bracing herself, just moments before the wolf would’ve landed on her chest and ripped her to shreds.

The axe cut clean through the wolf, slicing it in two pieces from snout to tail. Its blood splashed all over Chess’s face and chest, and she heard twin thumps as the two halves fell on either side of her head. A choking sob fought its way up her throat, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, sure she was going to throw up.

Then the two halves of the wolf began to move, shifting beside her into two human-like shapes, each wearing half of the pelt. The fog began to clear as two hands reached towards her, and Chess stifled a cry - her grandmother and Cairo, welcoming her home.

Chess opened her eyes with a gasp.

Instead of her grandmother’s old military jacket and Cairo’s shining eyes, all she saw were steel bars. The air was filled with the scent of ferns and moss. The chatter of birds was so overwhelming she almost covered her ears.

A soft yip came from somewhere to the side, sounding concerned - the white wolf. Chess rolled over to look at him - on the other side of the pathway, the wolf sat, watching her. He tilted his head a little bit, and it struck her how much he almost seemed like the neighbors’ dogs back home.

Home…

It wasn’t the first time she thought it, but Chess was still shocked by the near-physical pain in her chest, the longing for the rolling fields and blue skies and familiar faces. She wanted to go home.

“He likes you,” said a voice.

Chess inhaled sharply and sat up, eyes searching wildly for the source of the voice. A girl about her age was sitting in her cage, hands folded in her lap, watching her curiously, close enough to touch. Chess tried to move away, but pain shot through her hand, and she fell back to the ground with a hiss of pain. Her hand was wrapped in bandages, but her pinky was the worst of it - during her trial, Levana had forced her hand to pick up a hatchet and use it on the pinky finger of her other hand, taking it off at the second knuckle. The pain had been bad enough that she’d wished to pass out, although she hadn’t. But while that was the worst of her pain now, it wasn’t all of it - there were scratches and cuts and bruises all over her entire body, some from the scuffle on the satellite and some from that awful Lunar boy she’d stayed with for several days and most of the aches from sleeping on hard floors for more nights than she could count.

The strange girl didn’t react to Chess’s fear. She sat quietly against the wall, her back straight, looking interested and curious. She clearly wasn’t another prisoner - she wore a pale pink dress that looked out of place against the dark regolith Chess’s cage was carved from. Her honey-brown hair tumbled around her shoulders in healthy, shiny curls, half of it tied up in a ponytail. Her eyes were a pale blue, sparkling with excitement, and Chess realized that her left eye had three scars below it, cutting in straight, parallel lines down her cheek - almost like perpetual tear tracks.

She was the most beautiful person Chess had ever seen.

And it was that beauty that made Chess realize she was wearing another glamour - another trick.

“Ryu and I were wondering if that was a very good dream or a very bad one?” the girl asked in a sweet voice. “You were mumbling to yourself quite a lot.”

Chess pushed away the lingering memory of the dream, the image of Cairo and her grandmother smiling at her. “Who the hell are you? And-and who’s Ryu?”

The girl smiled. “Ryu is the wolf, silly!” She turned to look at the wolf across the path. “Haven’t you been neighbors for four months now? Ryu, why haven’t you introduced yourself?”

The wolf blinked big yellow eyes at her.

The girl looked back at Chess and leaned forward, like she was sharing a big secret. “And I am your new best friend. But you mustn't tell anyone, because all the guards think that I am your master and you are my pet - they don’t know that my pets are my dearest friends of all! We will fool all of them, you and I.”

Chess struggled to comprehend what the girl was saying. None of it made sense, or answered Chess’s question.

The girl reached for a basket beside her that Chess hadn’t noticed before. It seemed like a picnic basket, lined with some soft, silvery material. “I thought that today, we could perhaps play doctor and patient! I’ll be the doctor, of course. You seem in need of some care.”

Chess sat up and pressed herself against the opposite wall. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I know. That’s why it’s pretend.” The girl smiled wider. “Aren’t you having fun?”

“No, actually, I’m really not.” Chess’s fingers pressed against the rough stone floor. “I’ve been mentally and physically tortured, I’m starving, I’m thirsty, I’m locked up in a cage in a goddamn zoo-”

“Menagerie.”

“-and I’m hurting in a thousand different places. And now some crazy girl comes in here and wants to play make-believe? Like we’re best friends or some shit?” Chess scoffed. “I’m good. Go away.”

The girl sighed and leaned her chin on her hand, resting her elbow on her knee. “You shouldn’t call me crazy. The guards don’t like that. Even though it’s true.”

Neither of them broke the silence for a moment.

“I know it’s true. You want to know how I know?” The girl leaned forward again. “The palace walls have been bleeding for years, but I am the only one who sees.”

More silence.

“No one believes me, no matter how many times I say it,” the girl continued. “Sometimes I can’t help but step in it, and then I track bloody footprints everywhere, and I worry that perhaps a wolf soldier will smell it and come for me. But if the blood was real, don’t you think the palace maids would clean it up?”

Chess tried and failed to think of an answer.

The girl pulled a small box wrapped in ribbon. “These are for you. Doctor’s orders are to take one pill twice a day.” She handed Chess the box with a wink. “It isn’t real medicine, of course. It’s just candy. Sour apple petites - they’re my favorite.”

“I’m not eating one of those.”

“Why not? It’s a gift.” The girl opened the box and held it out to Chess - four small, round red candies, shiny and smooth. Chess didn’t move, and after a moment, the girl set the open box down on the floor between them.

“What do you want from me?” Chess asked.

“I want to be friends.”

“A friendship based on lies?” Chess laughed sharply, humorlessly. “Of course you don’t mind that. You’re Lunar. Lying is all you know how to do.”

The girl looked at her lap. “I’ve only ever had two friends - two human friends. One became a pile of girl-shaped ashes when we were very little, and the other has gone missing. I don’t know if he’ll ever return.” She shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut. “But I asked the stars to send me a sign that he was all right, and the next day was a trial like any other trial, except standing before me was an Earthen girl who’d seen him.”

“Can you make sense? Please?”

The girl leaned forward, closer than she had before, close enough that Chess could almost feel her breath across her face. “Is he all right? Sybil said he was still alive, that he probably was supposed to be piloting that ship, but she didn’t say whether he’d been injured. Do you think he’s safe?”

“Who?”

The girl smiled again, almost wistfully. “Clark Winslett. Sybil’s guard. The man with the blond hair and the kind eyes and the smile that holds the sun. Is he all right?”

Chess blinked, baffled. She didn’t remember much from the fight on the Rampion, and what few memories she did have were blurry. But while her focus had been mostly on the thaumaturge, she did faintly remember a blond guard.

But the smile that holds the sun? Bullshit.

“I remember two people that tried to kill us,” she muttered.

“And he was one of them?” the girl pressed, seemingly unconcerned with the killing part.

“Yeah, I guess.”

The girl smiled gleefully. “Did he look okay?”

“He looked like he was trying to kill me,” Chess said. “But I bet my friends killed him first. That’s our typical procedure for people who work for your queen.”

The girl’s smile vanished. “You’re lying.”

“Nope. And he deserved it.”

The girl began to shake, almost hyperventilating. The wolf - Ryu - pawed at the bars of his enclosure, whimpering. Chess tamped down her guilt and told herself she wouldn’t call for the guard’s help.

The girl got her breathing under control and sat up, her hand resting on her basket. “I see. Well, I-I should go.” She moved as if to stand, but then stopped. “I wasn’t lying about the bleeding walls. Soon, the palace will be so soaked with blood that Artemisia Lake will be so red, even Earthens will see it.”

“I don’t care,” Chess said. “And I’m not going to feel sorry for you. Your glamours and your mind control - you people have built your entire civilization around those lies, and I don’t want anything to do with it.”

The girl crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at Chess, but said nothing for almost a minute. Chess lifted her chin and looked the girl in the eye, refusing to be afraid.

“I haven’t used my glamour since I was twelve years old,” the girl said at last. “That’s why I have these visions. Why I’m going mad.”

Chess didn’t show her surprise as the steel bars of the cage opened and the girl ducked out, taking her basket but leaving the candy. “Your Highness,” said the guard as he closed and relocked the cage door.

Chess listened to the footprints retreat down the path, staring at the candies, her heart thundering in her ears.

Your Highness.

Princess Annleigh.

The queen’s stepdaughter.

Annleigh was rumored to be more beautiful than Levana herself - which was why the queen had given her those scars. Even Earth knew about her, about her unspeakable beauty, about her scars… though Chess had never heard about the girl going mad.

The candies lay in front of her still, tempting her. Chess had no reason to trust her, but she’d finished her one small meal hours ago, and she wouldn’t be fed until the next day. Her stomach began to ache, and her head spun, and while she was proud of how long she made it, eventually she reached for the box and lifted one of the candies from the shreds of paper it was nestled in. It was smooth as glass between her teeth and cracked easily, the warm, melty center sweet and sour on her tongue. Nothing, nothing, had ever tasted so good.

But it was nothing compared to the sensation that expanded through her chest, down to her legs and into her fingers. A feeling of warmth, of comfort, that took her pain away with it.

Chess managed a smile up at the glass ceiling, at the stars beyond it. Perhaps the princess wasn’t so cruel after all.