#spent all this time making a dragon curled onto a tree

[pooksbedamned]

[owlespresso]

gloaming. yuri leclerc.

tags: fem!reader, reader has a personality and vague hints of backstory, sfw, pining

a/n: this is pretty self-indulgent. just fluff.

The night is quiet. Snow-covered fields stretch around you on all sides, leading to a distant tree line full of old, stubborn pines. The winter’s frost has grabbed tight hold of the land, blighting everything above the snow in a fine coating of frost. You can see your breath, like a brief curl of dragon’s smoke right in front of you.

One of the month’s many virtues is its distinct lack of insects. No crickets to chirp and no mosquitos to menace any patch of skin you dare leave uncovered. Not that you’ll have many in this weather. There’s quite a long way to go before winter ebbs into early spring. The patch of land Dimitri allotted you so generously after war’s end will remain in crystalline stasis until the season's turn. 

In the distance, over the hills, you can see Fhirdiad’s towering silhouette. Its rough lines and pointed domes and salient spires cast an imperious picture on your east horizon. Did the people of the capital enjoy tonight’s midwinter festival? Did friends and family rush onto the crowded streets to partake in merriment and games and fantastic feasts? The streets played host to an astounding variety of breathtaking ice sculptures all around the noble districts. You wonder if any happened to feature the king.

You look away, back to the treetops painted frosty white, glistening in the eldritch dark of the night. The stone building you’ve chosen to occupy was once a manor and a military outpost, created to overlook these very vistas. The honorable members of House Rowe often utilized it to rest their heads when too exhausted too plod back to their hillside manners out west, leaving their gilded, cushioned carriages to wait in the front yard all evening. Heavens forbid they struggle for even a moment with a minor chill.

You shut your eyes and drink deep the wintry air. The icy sting in the air is sobering, granting you clarity. Dinner was spent alone, enjoying more mixes of wines and liquors than you would prefer to admit. Sometime along the way, you even attempted to wrangle the guards into drinking alongside you. It was at that point that one of them politely inquired if you would like to take a walk.

And now, the fresh air pricks at your numbing cheeks. The hazy remnants of your late night rendezvous with the liquor cabinet are battered back by winter’s embrace and your own irritation.

Across the countless times you have imbibed in your short life, you have discovered that being drunk is fun until it is decidedly not. It’s fun until you require your motor skills, fun until your stream of consciousness rolls into a riptide loosening the leash you keep wrapped ‘round your emotions. The festivities are long over. You're not even sure what occasion they had been celebrating. All of these winter festivals blend together after the first three.

You slump over the flat stone of the wall, bent at the waist. Your fingers don’t even reach the edge. Faint footsteps scruff across the old stone behind her. Quiet, but purposefully loud enough for you to hear. That alone tells you who dares approach.

“Do you believe in god, Yuri?” your ragged voice sounds unfamiliar to yourself. You don't budge from your prone position. The stone cools the overheated side of your face, seeps through your layers. You can feel the wild thrum of your heart begin to slow, cooling the agonizing sear of you pumping blood.

“I believe that it’s long past your bedtime,” Yuri says, a broken piece of glass crunching under his heel. “And I believe in the Goddess. How could I not when she blessed me with you?” The mocking drawl in his voice forces the corners of your lips into a deep frown.

He’s not going to leave, anytime soon, so you slide back onto your feet. The sudden change in position has you swaying on your feet, foot stumbling out of place. Before you can take a tumble and make even more of a fool of yourself, Yuri grasps your shoulder, touch grounding. You regard him with as blank a stare as you can manage. Despite the lashing winds and otherwise unpleasant conditions, Yuri is unflappable as always, long locks of lavender laid atop his shoulder. He’s traded his cape in for a dark cloak, sticked lines of embroidery lacing the cuffs and bottom of the garment, dance around its bone white buttons. 

He’s still all purples and reds, but the smokey greys you’ve come to associate with his wardrobe have been traded in for darker shades. And he looks good, like he hasn’t lost a night of sleep in his life.

“Can’t sleep,” you mutter, kicking a nearby pebble. It’s sent skittering under a nearby table. Yuri regards you flatly, lips pressed into a thin, straight line—as thin as his petal plump lips can press, anyways. They’re coated in a subtle shade of pink, tonight, just blush enough to look natural. He rarely ever applies any intense, saturated shades of lipstick or gloss, lest it distract from the keen smolder of his eyes and his natural good looks.

Though, it doesn’t matter much what he wears. He dazzles on every occasion, sways swathes of civilians with his silver tongue and striking smile. He’s horribly, magnificently magnetic. Anyone would be lucky to have him, for what he has and what is underneath it all. He would surely make a marvelous spouse—

He flicks your forehead, sending you stumbling backwards. Before you can take a tumble onto your arse, he does you the good favor of snatching you by the arm to steady you. When had he come so close?

Up close, his chagrin is much more obvious. You shift uncomfortably under his stare. You cannot recall what having a mother was like, but you can imagine this is what being scolded by one would feel like.

“Where do you go in that head of yours?” he says with a sigh, wry smile breaking out across his pink petal lips. 

“I… I don’t—” you stammer, scrambling for mental purchase. 

“You can tell me all about it later,” Yuri takes your hand with a graceful flourish of his cape, drawing you close to the firm, lean line of him. The scent of faint lilac wreaths around you like an old, comfortable coat. “When you’re a little more sober, at least.” There’s a genteel grace to his steps as he shepherds you towards the stone staircase.

“Where are we going?” You’re left to do aught but follow, a sudden, giddy giggle erupting from your chest as you stumble into his side. 

He sighs, belied by his wry smile. He relinquished his hold on your hand to wrap an arm around your waist, the stretch of his body so blessedly warm against your own. He chases the clinging chill away, dizzies your thoughts into paste.

You hardly hear him ask, “Bed. Yours or mine?” His question rattles you out of your drunken stupor. Your eyes go wide as saucers, palms hot with sweat as you struggle to form an adequate answer. Despite having known him for quite some time, his directness still manages to fluster you—an effect he likely intended, given his devious simper. What’s somehow worse is that you can’t bring yourself to be cross with him.

“Y-Yours,” you hardly realize you’ve spoken your mind until Yuri breaks out in a loud, genuine laugh. It’s unlike his typically tame chuckles, a sound of sheer exuberance that makes the inside of your chest twinge. You like hearing him this happy. You want him to be this happy all of the time.

“Bold. I like it.” he teases, jostling you in his grasp. 

“Oh shove it—wait!” you huff, but stay in step with him, struggling not to stumble as he shepherds you down the stone stairs A line of torches straddle the descending path. In your drunken haze, you had forgotten about the two guards posted at the bottom. The sight of them shocked you stiff-still. Your fingers curl into the fine brocade of his black cloak, pulling him flush to the wall. “Wait!” you hiss, voice nearly lost in his many layers.

“What? Did you leave something behind?”

“We can’t be seen sneaking around together!” you insist, and are immediately incensed at the eyeroll he gives you.

“And why would that be? Too ashamed to be seen with a charlatan like myself?” he drawls, yet takes you in closer. There’s a mean glint in his eyes, something decidedly wicked as his breath ghosts over your cheek, teasing your ear.

“Of course not!” you protest, eyes wide, cheeks got. How could you have misspoken so terribly? The last thing you wanted was to make him feel judged for the life he led, for the methods he employed in his occupation.  “It’s you I’m worried about. What’ll people say if they saw you consorting with the Mad Witch of the Wend? No one would… would…” You draw a trembling hand over his chest, feeling the cool silk under your fingertips.

“You’re worried about my image? How darling.” Yuri coos, clearly disregarding the seriousness of the situation. People talk, servants talk, guards talk. If you two were to be seen on a random, midnight rendezvous, then word would surely get back to the capital, where plenty of available, valuable bachelorettes could hear.

“Of course I am. You could still marry someone nice and rich from the capital. Someone connected…” you reason. You blink your bleary eyes attempting to clear the blur that sticks to your periphery like stubborn burrs. The world at its edges is opaque and slow as melting candle wax. This is precisely why you typically abstain from the absinthe and fine brandies which tradesmen plod through the outpost. It makes your head dull and your words impossible to find.

“Hm. No. I don’t think I will. Noble life never agreed with me.” Yuri gives your cheek a consoling pat. You get the feeling that he is still, for some reason, very amused. Which is preferable to him being offended, or hurt. You don’t mind him laughing at you, you think, not when genuine mirth flatters him so. “If I’m going to make a difference, it’s not going to be with someone else’s spending money.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He tugs you past the posted guards, ushering you within the hollow halls of the outpost. Torches positioned on the wall shed gentle light up and down the small tunnel. You break beyond the thick walls which surround the inner manor—a proud, brutal building that sits a hybrid between the harsh stone architecture meant to shield from the cold and the slender, elegant cathedrals and house manors found en masse within the capital.

“I know.” Yuri shoots you a conspiratorial, knowing look. His thumb rubs gentle circles into your side. You can feel his touch through the two layers you have on, his arm having scooped beneath your outer cloak with dangerous efficiency. “The fact that you still think I could find some nice, doe-eyed girl from the upper crust to fall in love with is adorable, but I’m not interested in all that.” 

He pulls you through the inner sanctum with a self-assuredness that would make you think he owned the place. His strides are slow. His voice keeps his strides slow and his voice quiet, sticking to the walls and where the shadow sinks the deepest. His cape swishes and billows around you, keeps you shielded from prying gazes of glancing guardsmen. Every step he takes is quixotically quiet despite his heels.

“I just want you to be happy. With someone nice. Who can help you make your dreams come true.” 

He scoffs. “Ugh. When did you become such a ham?” you shove him again, and he laughs. “If you must know, I’ve already found the person I want to spend the rest of my days with.” He herds you to a nondescript wooden door, jamming a key into the lock before thrusting it open. The room is deathly dark, the only light slipping in silvery through a slit in the curtains. 

Incredulous and wide-eyed, you gape at him as he draws you inside, wondering if you had heard him properly. While he engaged with a number of brief romances and paramours, he never seemed entirely beholden to the idea of a permanent entanglement. Which you will not judge him for. Only members of the nobility prioritize marriage so persistently, all too eager to shuttle off their children to new, unloving homes for the sake of power. You can’t imagine Yuri buying into such a sham—even if the court’s coffers could fund his ambitions.

“You are? Who is it?” you finally muster up the gumption to ask. There’s a strange, cold feeling at the pit of your stomach. Burgeoning dread you cannot make heads or tails of.

“Worried they’ll steal me away?” Yuri says with a fond smile. He looks at you while he lights the bedside lamp. He does it with magic, you realize, catching the tail end of his somatic gesture, pointer finger aimed straight at the lamp in question, thumb quirked skyward. You’ve seen him do it a few times before in battle, spells interwoven with fast footwork and flashes of forged steel from underneath his half fastened cloak.  “You don’t need to worry your pretty head about all that—but you’ll be relieved to know that they live nearby. Very nearby, in fact.” He said, voice slowing to emphasize a point you don’t quite comprehend.

He unlatches the clasps on his cloak, gently dropping it over a nearby wooden chair. He smooths his hands over the back of it before he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. If you were perhaps a shred more sober, you would have immediately looked away. But you watch as he deftly sheds the silken garment, exposing planes of leam, pale flesh to the slight candlelight. 

He clears his throat, with a knowing smirk. You pointedly snap your gaze downwards, pretending to find sudden interest in the floorboards. They seem to glow a soft, warm brown, aged polish scuffed and scratched with the wear of time.

Hastily, you follow his example, casting off your outermost layers with great haste. It’s second nature to shift down to your undergarments at this point. Despite his teasing, you’re comfortable with Yuri. Word of his cunning and cut-throated customs is rife in both the underbelly and upper crust of Faerghus, but none of the gossip mongers who gab on about him actually know him. 

Years spent at his side have let you understand exactly the kind of man he is. Which is also why you know he would never be interested in someone like you. You’re something broken, something bent, misshapen by the malicious hands which made you. The idea of being coveted, of being loved strikes within you an uneasy feeling of wrongness. 

Ah, but you’re sure he’s still waiting for an answer…

“Yuri…” you begin. You don’t quite remember what you had been discussing, you realize with a strong swing of dismay. Yuri, blessed with an unfathomable amount of kindness, is quick to remind you.

“What? Does the honored Marquis truly want to know the sordid details of my sex life? How scandalous!” he exclaims. You guffaw, dropping onto the mattress face-first, still in your boots and trousers.

“I just wanna make sure you’re with someone good.” you mumble, pressing your face into the pillow. It’s cool, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you burrow further into the cushions. The entire bed smells like him, and if you were possessed of but an ounce more of sobriety you would be too abashed to savor it. 

“Again. Adorable. But you should really watch out for yourself,” he hums. His footsteps trail away from the bed, and you’re about to look over your shoulder when his hand wraps around your ankle and tugs, urging you onto your back. “I’m surprised you don’t have a line of suitors breaking down your doors everyday…” His fingers run down your clothed leg, to the leather and latches of your boots. You watch the graceful weave of his fingers as he slides them off, one after the other. He’s taken off his gloves, allowing you to just barely feel the fleeting warmth of his hands as they briefly swipe over your skin.  “Though, I suppose I should be grateful.”

“That I’m gonna be lonely forever?” you grumble, turning onto your side. 

“That I don’t have any background checks to do.” Yuri says, further away this time. You glance over your shoulder to where he’s gently dropping your boots near the door. So much care and compassion for something so small. 

“Oh… Does that mean I can ba…background check the person you like?” you ask, and he smiles. 

“Of course,” he says. His fingers weave through his long lilac locks, handily undoing his hair tie. He drops it on the nightstand before slipping underneath the sheets to settle beside you. “I have full confidence in your investigative skills, and you’ll quite like the person I chose.”

“That’s because you have good taste,” you mumble, eyes slipping shut. You wait a moment, and then two, and then three before opening one eye to peer at him. “Can I get a hint?”

“Again, don’t worry about it. At least, not right now. I’ll talk your ear off about it tomorrow, okay?” he says, consoling. His hand runs over your hair, fingers sliding down your neck. A flush of heat rolls through your spine, so silken and sanguine that you can’t suppress a shudder. You retreat to the cool comfort of your pillow, letting his touch sap the tension from your sore muscles. “When you have a better chance of actually remembering what I say.” The meat of his palm presses against your upper back. His heated touch saps the remaining tension from your body, soothing you enough to slip into the beginning phases of sleep.

“...Fine.” you huff, but there’s no real bite behind it. It’s half muffled into the pillowcase. You know Yuri likes being a man of his word, but he’s also a man in demand. There’s no telling if one of his gang members will burst through his door and announce a sudden tragedy that demands his attention. There’s no telling if he’ll be gone in the morning, a note left in his place written in that familiar, tidy cursive.

His roaming touch wanders upwards, warm fingers spanning across the nape of your neck. His thumb rubs soft circles into the skin together, and the touch alone would keep you awake if not for the alcohol muddling your system.

“And I’ll be here when you wake up,” he continues, as if sensing your apprehension. “You have my word on that.”

[rottenczar]

God I fucking hate pet memorial posts but i just don’t want to forget any of this

(If it wasn’t clear this is a pet memorial post)

Upon arrival, she was so tiny. She lost weight the first few days. We were so scared we were going to lose her then.

When she was a kitten, she had the cutest little meow. We called her ‘meepers’

With time her meow changed. It became a loud old lady meow. Scratchy and deep.

Very vocal. You would say her name and she would mimic it back to you as best she could. 

Sat on every phone and remote. If you were wondering where one was, it was always under her.

Loved jumping into drawers. I put a blanket into one for her to lay in

Only bit me once in her entire life. I was doing her nails and wasn’t paying attention to her cues. She didn’t even bite, just put her teeth on me to tell me she was angry.

Never climbed in the Christmas tree, but could always be found underneath it

Unbothered by any and everything. Once, my cousin called his phone to see if she would get up and off of it, but no, she just stayed there.

Would always wait to be invited up onto the couch.

Was never a really big fan of the dogs, but they loved her so much.

Avid box enjoyer.

She had this one really long canine that poked out of her mouth for most of her life. We called it her snaggletooth. 

When I dormed for a year in college, I would have to put a towel down in my lap bc of the sheer amount that she would drool.

Loved soft blankets, but hated being under them. She only snuggled with me under the blankets twice in her whole life.

God she hated car rides. No matter what you did, she would always scream

When she was little, she would try to sleep on my face unless I had a hand on her.

Kind of looked like toothless from how to train your dragon

The clearest yellow eyes imaginable.

She ran away from home once. Three days later I heard a meowing from outside the bathroom window and sure enough, she had returned. Never once went outside again. 

Never liked cat beds, but stole the dog’s bed all the time.

She’d look out my mom’s window to see when I came home from work in the mornings and ran downstairs in time to meet me at the front door.

Rarely played with toys but occasionally chased her own tail. There is this one toy with a ball on a round track and cardboard to scratch in the center that she was fond of.

Sometimes I would put my finger in her mouth when she yawned just to see the face she made.

My mom always used to make fun of her for her primordial pouch.

I used to press my forehead to hers so often that she began to do it back to me.

Would rub her face on every corner she could see.

There was this spot behind her ear that always irritated her when touched. She would scratch at it and growl at herself for irritating it.

Big plastic eater. We had to keep new bags of cat food away from her because she’d find a way to chew a hole through it.

Always cuddled in the crook of my arm or between my legs when we went to sleep

Never a big fan of the dogs but tolerated their presence well. She’d bop them with no claws if they got too rowdy with her, but nothing more.

For some reason, hated closed doors. She’d walk through a doorway to open the door wider and just leave.

Sometimes when I noticed her sleeping, I would creep up to poke her awake just to hear her distinctive chirp and sleepy eyes.

9 times out of 10, she could be found curled up in a ball on my soft blankets.

She got her name when me and my mom were watching one of her soaps. One of the characters had a baby and named her Emma. Not Emily or Emmy, but Emma. We both thought it fit really well for her.

Regularly came up to and sat with any guest in the house. She’d sleep next to anyone who spent the night.

Had the most beautiful black fur. Started to grow little white hairs with age and soon, half her whiskers were white.

Even the biggest cat haters loved her. She was remarkable.

[withoneheadlight]

| billy & will + pre-harringrove | full fic in spanish |

~

There’s an in-between. The high school and the middle school. A bare piece of land, yellowed from the lack of grass and the rough kiss of the sun and, right in the middle, an old shack.

It's a shabby thing that accumulates lack of re-paintings and excess of humidity but that’s out of sight, in that way of things that are just there but no one wastes time looking at anymore are.

That's where they meet.

Billy lights up a smoke. Slides his ass up an ancient, long retired desk, pasture now of the damp and rot, and leans against the peeling wood. Front and back-row seat to the long column of trees the wind’s rippling along on the other side of the wire fence. The ember warms up his lips as he inhales a deep puff and exhales a,

“You’re getting soft, Billy Hargrove”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, ears on that ceaseless chirping of the bids that sews together the slow-passing hours of the days and nights of Indiana, and on the delighted screams from the middle-schoolers, remembering that, somewhere in there, there's a bunch of kids who will still be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. That maybe even Max could be one of them, if Billy hurries. That maybe he will too, if Billy is able to control that instinctive reaction that pulls his skin inward and screams at him to stopstopstop, that the soft skin shreds, falls apart so easily.

But maybe it can be both of them, if Billy manages to clench his teeth hard enough and keep on softening.

‘Cause soft skin hurts when it breaks but,

"Hey!"

Sometimes it’s worth it.

Will’s smiling wide. Stops running, abruptly, and then just stands in there, panting. He’s got a funny nose and giant eyes. The kind of bangs that make you wanna blow them out of his eyes even though what they're is too short, actually, and Billy’s always thought he'd do better in life if he didn't. Notice things. If he didn't see that widewidewidewide smile and could read it so easily.

"I've been dying to show you this!" Will kneels down into the grass, chopping out the words in between exhalations. Pulls at the zipper of his backpack, chest heaving, and he doesn't realize he's going to get dirt on the knees of his jeans or that Billy can read it. His relief. Of finding him in here and not just an empty desk. Of how for a kid every single day more means 'You care’.

(About me)

It was early December. Friday right after last period and one of those silly things that only happen in movies. Something so like scripted and choreographed that Billy nearly considered looking up at the ceiling to make sure John Hughes wasn't silently watching them, taking notes from above. They crashed in the middle of a corner. Billy sped up ‘cause he was in a hurry and the only way to catch Max in time lately was to intercept her right out of class. Will ‘cause he's always going like that, Billy knows now. Always a thousand miles per hour. Always verging on time-jump speed to then being the kind of kid who seems so quiet it's scary. They crashed. Hard. In the middle of that corner. Papers flying all over and a curse (Will) and a muffled groan (Billy) and they ended up pulling at the same paper one from each corner. A drawing. Trolls and wizards and a castle and an emerald-green light. A star in the distance, auguring bad omens. Billy forgot to be frightening and Will must have forgotten he was supposed to be frightened when he blurted out a,

"Fuck, Byers. This is frikin’ fantastic."

No fear or reticence or that way he sometimes has of bumping into words and stumbling, just a "Really?" eyes huge and bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he blinked when Billy also forgot he was also supposed to― well, supposed to be Billy Hargrove.

"’Got more?"

So now he skips English instead of Algebra, every Tuesday and Thursday. Sneaks off to that in-between place he knows no one wastes time looking at anymore to light up a smoke, same time as Will has his recess. And the kid doesn't always manage to shrug off of his flock of nerds but he’s lucky, some days.

And he brings the drawings.

Orcs and goblins and enchanted mountains on the northwest and it seems to Billy that there are more princes than princesses and that if there are any, they’re almost always sorceresses, almost always queens and that your attention gets hooked on their burning eyes, not in the clothes they’re missing and Billy feels like it's a small grain of sand, this thing they’re doing. Knows that someone’s already keeping a solid ground under Will's feet ('Joyce' he says it’s her name. And it stings, the way he manages to fit so much love, into such a tiny word). But it also seems to him that maybe it doesn't take much more, for Will, just a few grains of sand, to replace those that being a strange kid in a small town sick with apprehension for what it finds strange, takes every day away from him.

So Billy’s gotta have to clench his teeth ‘till his gums start bleeding ‘cause is that, or let his skin toughen up again. Is that. Or fucking everything up.

And ave María, Billy doesn’t want to fuck it all up again.

So he sucks on his cigarette. Hooks up an eyebrow. Waves his hand to hurry the kid up.

“Mmm. That’s how good you think it is, dickwad? ‘C’mon, got my next class in twenty”

Will flies over the papers. Head nodding and fingers skimming fast. Finds what he’s looking for and yanks it out, raises it up triumphantly in his hand. It’s the sword in the stone and he carries it up to Billy with wet knees and just a little mud-staining. It’s February and the sun’s burning brightly over all the wetness the night’s spent crying. The drawing is a huge dragon, wings made of leather and cartilage, spread out in eclipse in front of the moon, only a few silver rays illuminating the dark knight in front of it. Blue eyes lined in black, blond curls cascading down his back and Billy was clenching his teeth but they part now, ‘cause the figure looks too much like him to be a coincidence. A smile devours his whole mouth. Soft. A joke itching on the tip of his tongue. He grunts a,

“I’ve been called many things. But never this, Byers”

Only half his expression’s visible, eyebrows covered with those thick bangs, and Billy has to once again fight the impulse to blow them out.

“¿Hum?”

“Knight” he says, drawling the teasing tone out “In shining armor”

And It’s such a loss, all that hair. Because it’d pass unseen, if you don’t know him. The way his eyebrows spike up underneath and it burrows in between them, the eagerness of teasing back. But Billy’s lucky, ‘cause it’s been more than two months like this and Billy―

Knows him. Well enough at least. So it doesn't pass unseen to him.

“You know the drill, William. Spit it out. Can see you’re holding it up from miles”

Will purses his lips out tight. Looks like he’s trying but. Nah.

“Wouldn’t be that shiny '' scrunches his nose. Throws a meaningful glance at Billy’s disheveled looks. More thoughtful than not, way more intentional. But that's something he'll figure out when he grows up.

Billy cackles. Will's smile widens, satisfied. Hops onto the desk next to his. Billy offers him the cigarette.

“And―this?” Will shrugs inwardly. Glances up at him. Then down, at the exchange between their hands. Takes the cig in between two fingers and it doesn’t burn but he barely presses them against the filter, anyway, as if he’s afraid it would, all of a sudden.

"Retaliation," Billy half grunts, half laughs, and Will huffs, but swallows a deep breath to gather strength. Exhales. Takes a tiny puff and―

"Argg," coughscoughscoughs "This is. Ugh. It's awful. I don't know how you―” almost throws the cigarette back to him "Ufff, what a―" he hesitates "Yuck"

Billy snorts. Thinks about Max inhaling deep, no more than two weeks ago, eyes pining his in place. Breaking into a violent cough only a second later.

Billy pats Will’s back too.

“That’s good” he says “You better not like it” Will scrunches his whole face “And this too” Billy adds, shaking the drawing a little “This is good, too. Amazingly good, man”

Will. Stares. At him. One. Two. Three long seconds. And Billy hurts a little. With every single one. Three sharp stabs with that newly freed sword. A different kind of ' you care' each one: 'it seems so impossible to me (that you care)'. 'If you think so, maybe it's true (and I do care, that you think it)’. 'Thank you (for caring)'. And then. Those hidden eyebrows. Will’s cheeks puffing out a little when he bites the tip of his tongue and―

"Billy?" his eyes glint, heavy with ill-contained malice.

"Uh?"

"You're the dragon"

"You fucking ass―!"

Billy shoves him sideways. But Will just sways. He doesn't lose footing on that firm ground he’s standing on. Looks back at the drawing, hunches a shoulder up.

"But you’re the knight, too"

He says it in a tone that cuts straight through Billy’s chest Thank you he thinks, even though his soft skin is hurting. And he still doesn't blow hard on that bowl fringe from where it covers Will’s whole forehead but―

Stirs up all his hair instead.

“Eh!!”

“Hey, shitbird. Wanna see the one I’ve made?”

Will nods quickly. All contained-speed and reverberating and sometimes Billy doesn't know how so few people can see it, how big he is for his own skin and he thinks I wish, wish he'd accumulate enough grains of sand to raise up that firm ground under his feet, and get really, really high.

“Sure!”

He keeps it tucked away in the breast pocket of his jacket. Folded in upon itself. Same way he keeps everything else. Folds and layers and at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks at but.

He unfolds it to show it to Will Byers.

“Wow” Will says, and smiles up at Billy like Two months since we crashed against each other and I feel like I know you a little too, Billy Hargrove and Billy hit rock bottom but now at least Max and him sing AC/DC in chorus on the rides back home and Will's voice sounds like 'You're good' as he runs his fingertips over the graphite outlines of the skull and repeats, "Wow"

“Gonna have it done” Billy inhales a deep drag of Marlboro and 'Four Months to Eighteen' and for a moment it’s like he could feel the smoke curl up inside his lungs before blowing it out. The image is as pretty as it’s stupid. He glances at the open jaw of the drawing and thinks maybe he'd like a drag too "Have it healed for summer and―"

“What’s happening here?”

Steve.

Harrington.

Hand on his hips, preppy pastel polo lapels up, Ray-Bans holding up that way his hair swirls without really taming it. The twelve o'clock sun is shining sideways from his back and he's pretty. Painfully pretty. And Billy’s sure it's impossible that this redneck raised on corn and money amassed in dubious moral business is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen but sometimes he forgets. That it is impossible because. Fuck. It so seems like it. Light flicking on the ends of his hair where it curls. Under his ear. In the long curve of his neck. And the world doesn't halt and the birds don't stop chirping and the clouds don't part and no preternatural shit happens because this is the black hole where all the world's shit goes, Indiana. But. It so seems like it and,

Billy.

Knew how to breathe but that’s another thing he keeps on forgetting. Every time Steve Harrington passes him by.

He’s gotta force himself. To nod. To stop choking. When Will looks up at him with those big eyes. Questioning.

Apologizing.

Billy Hargrove, from freshly crowned local terror to―

“I was―” Will starts. Inhales. Presses his lips together right before blurting out the truth ‘cause he knows it's the only real way out "Showing Billy my drawings. Sometimes we―"

―the softie whose pride goes high up in his throat every time an eleven-year-old kid says 'Billy, this is good. It's very. Very good, Billy’.

"Sometimes we. Uhm. We―"

Will's already huge eyes get bigger, rounder. As if he’s just realizing that where he's stuck his foot keeps getting muddier, trapping himself all the way in. And Billy smiles lightly at him, sideways, so it’s hidden. From Steve Harrington. From all the world beyond. ‘Cause of that thing about facades and how hard they’re to maintain, when on one side is pressing what you're supposed to be and on the other, relentlessly, what you're hiding.

But Steve’s asking,

“Sometimes―what?” and Will’s eyes are fixed on Billy, two wide-open I’m sorrys and Billy thinks Fuck it, Hargrove. C’mon. Stop hiding.

So he’s the one who says,

“We share our drawings, Harrington”

And Steve.

He’s got those eyes.

They're like a troubled ocean in the heart of winter, those eyes. Hard, hard, hard. Imposing. But soft. So fucking soft. When something catches him off guard. Rolling stones in the breaker. And Billy wants to get swept up in them, like falling along the curve of a wave. Steve looks at him, and at the drawing in his hand, his eyes a swirl and, when he looks up, the calm. And Billy feels as those times when it seemed to him the waves wanted. To wrap around him. To catch him. Soft as the reflecting clouds. And Billy feels as those times when he’d let them. Carry him. Drag him to the shore. Safe and sound.

“Is that yours?” Steve frowns. When he does that. He looks the prettiest. And Billy's heart breaks. In tiny tiny pieces. Thinks This is what it takes, thinks Fuck, thinks, This is how things hurt when you let your skin get soft.

What you don’t have. What you want. What you could―

Fuck.

What you could love so bad you'd rip your own skin off, so they could touch your heart right with their own hands.

Billy nods. Will smiles. Steve’s frown softens and― waveswaveswaves. On an autumn morning. Waves lapping at the surface of an ocean of calm.

And now. Billy sings AC/DC with Max. His heart taking on water when his voice falls off-key and she clutches at her lungs, choking on laughter. Now, he sits in the back of an old shack halfway between who he is and who he should be and so, so very carefully turns at the pages of Will Byers' sketchbook.

And Billy Hargrove hit rock bottom one day in late October. Hit rock bottom and beat into pulp that pretty face he can't stop seeing in his dream. When he's asleep. When he's awake. Hit rock bottom and that's where he's going to stay. It's either that. Or risk coming up to the wrong surface. And it's easier, here at the bottom. Easier to see what matters, when you look up.

Here, Billy takes a breath. Deep. Deeper. Holds onto that air so he has something keeping him alive underwater when Steve snatches the drawing off his hands. Studies it carefully. Says,

"It's―Uhm. Well―" Grins "It's not. Beautiful. Like, conventionally." He eyes cut back to Billy and something in them breaks into whitewater, into that softness he can't help, as if everything else is as much of a lie as 'Billy Hargrove' and all those imaginary walls "But―"

He says ‘But’ and then. The bell goes off.

"Oh!" Will bounces on the spot "I have to―" he yanks the backpack shut "Class!"

He takes off. Running. Turning around right before the corner of the shack to wave at them, flashing one of those smiles Billy has involuntarily categorized as 'the good ones', wide and already almost panting again, before disappearing at the speed of light towards school and to, Billy hopes, be one of those few kids who are still going to be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. If they’re lucky.

(If Billy’s lucky)

Steve Harrington is still there, planted in front of him when the alarm stops.

"Can I bump one of those?" he asks, chin pointing to the smoke Billy's squeezing between his fingers. In the drift of his hair the Ray-Bans stay afloat, capsizing.

Billy bangs the base of the pack against his thigh, pops out a cigarette. Offers it to him. Scrapes his thumb along the wheel when Steve takes it to his lips, leaning forward and― It's broad daylight but in the thin glow of the flame it almost feels like it’s that exact instant when the world begins to fade, darkness turning wide-open spaces into narrow little universes: Steve Harrington and his red lips around the smoke and a small ache in the pad of Billy's thumb from keeping alive the fire and from wanting things with a bigger kind of ache, his heart cauterizing from holding inside the rage of knowing he's never, ever going to have them but―

"But?" Billy asks.

Steve grabs his wrist. Hollows out his cheeks. Inhales deep. Takes him a moment when he pulls away. To let go. Long enough that his fingers could read the way Billy's pulse is raging in his wrist, if he wanted to.

“But” And he’s smiling. Lopsided. He slips into Will's seat and stretches his neck toward the sky. Prolongs the wait. Exhales. "It's cute."

And then his gaze cuts down and he’s searching for him, with those eyes of his. For Billy, who can never stop looking at him so, when he finds him, finds him looking back already.

And Billy―

Billy.

"Cute?"

Billy. Blinks. His hand stops halfway from getting his own cigarette to his mouth. Stops his heart and it feels like time’s stopping too, in this narrowness Steve's presence has reduced the moment into. And he’s smiling big now. His eyes soft. Soft. So fucking soft. And Billy thinks,

You're getting soft too, Billy Hargrove. You want to let him shred off your skin, when Steve says,

"You," snorting a soft laugh, sun melting in his eyes like honey "With Will. Drawing."

Billy wants him to never stop looking at him like that. Wants to lean in, and kiss him.

"Shut up and smoke your fucking cigarette, Harrington" he growls.

And Steve rolls his eyes in a way that screams 'Gotcha, Hargrove', but leans his back against the peeling wood of the shack.

And does as he’s told.

(Next Tuesday, it's not just Will who shows up, when the bell starts ringing)

.

.

i just finished translating this and, since i had originally written this part as and stand-alone thing. here it is. idk if it's worth the work of translating it whole, or if i really feel like it but, we'll see!. i've been at war with life and writing this past few weeks but i've been missing you so much, fandom <3<3<3. hope you've been doing well.

also billy + will + drawing is one of my fav hcs and there are a few tiny things more that i wanna write? hopefully i will 🌟

[magalidragon]

For the Drabble challenge: 29 + 30 please! 😁

Here’s one! I have #30 coming up in a minute! This is set in a new universe, just something sweet and soft and maybe a tad angsty!

Safe Haven | 29. “Come over here and make me!”

"Daenerys get down from there and come here!"

"Come over here and make me!"

Jon muttered under his breath, storming towards the large oak tree behind his house-- and hers-- rummaging around in the dirty leaves and mud to find the knot at the base where he put his foot and then the groove just a foot above his head for his hand, beginning to haul himself up the back way towards the house above him.  "I'm going to kill you," he vowed, hating when he had to get up this way because she'd cranked up the rope ladder.

He emerged at the top, crawling over ungracefully onto the platform and fell to prop his back against the wall, peering into the treehouse where she sat, her face a beautiful mess of fury, fire, and pain.  She sniffed, hiding it behind her hand, and he ducked his head.  He knew she didn't like it when he saw her cry.  His dragon was always so strong.  He hit his head against one of the tree branches that curved out from the main trunk, which was in the center of the house.

It was hard to tell what came first, the tree or the treehouse.  It had been there forever; he joked that hte Children of the Forst must have built it.  It belonged to no one, stuck behind his house and hers, in a space of the Wolfswood that did not fall on his family's property or hers.  He drew his knee up to his chest and hooked his arm around it, holding onto his ankle.  "Dany, please," he said softly.  "It's not the end of the world."

"You're leaving!"

"I was always going to leave!"

"You didn't <i>tell</i> me!"

He would give her that one.  He closed his eyes, sighing hard.  Couldn't take it back.  "You knew I was going to join," he muttered.  There wasn't much for him.  He wasn't interested in going to college.  He had great grades, was one of the top of his class, but it wasn't for him and he knew it.  "I didn't want you there when I did."

She scowled, reaching over and picked up a stray beer can from the other night when they'd spent the entire time that his cousin had a party hiding away in their own private one.  She chucked it at him, with no heat behind the action.  "I hate you."

"I love you."

"I hate you."

He crawled towards her, repeating the words.  Over and over.  "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"No," she cried, when he pulled her small frame into his arms, and she cried into his chest as he rocked her.  She hiccuped, clutching his shirt.  "It's all changing Jon."

"I know."  He was leaving the only place he knew as his home, joining the military, disappearing into wherever or whatever they wanted him to do, although he had ideas.  Ideas he wouldn't tell her about because she could convince him otherwise.  He kissed her brow.  This was the only place she had thought of as her home, after an entire life of moving from place to place.  He exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.  "Dany...if you were with me...I would not have done it and...and I have to do this."

"I know."  She tilted her face up, the sunlight dying away at the end of the early summer day, her face a pale oval, tears streaking.  She blinked her violet eyes, looking indigo in the dim light.  Her silver hair was tangled, dirty from spending most of the day in the treehouse.  She brushed her lips along his pulse, racing.  "Hold me Jon, just...just hold me until the end."

If he had his way there wouldn't be an end.  He nodded and squeezed her close, until their hands grew bored, their emotions needing release, and they peeled at each other's clothing until they were making love under the stars, still not close to being 'experts' at the act even after the last few months of numerous hours of practice.

When he woke up in the morning, she was gone, and he stared at the carved heart in the tree trunk, smiling at it.  he wouldn't see her again; he had a feeling she was already on her way to Essos.

One day, he hoped, and he gathered up his clothes and climbed out of the treehouse, tossing the rope ladder up so no one could get to their safe haven.

--

Dany had not been back since she left for college. It broke her heart, being back here, but she had to return, because it was Ned Stark's funeral.  It was important for her to be there; he was always so kind to her, the weird silver-haired "Ghost Girl" they called her.  He knew her family's issues, why her mother had relocated them up North, as far away from anyone in the South who might know about her father's embezzlement and crimes. She hated running, she just wanted a place to call home.

And it wasn't even really home until she had discovered that ancient treehouse in the woods behind her house.  Except she wasn't the only one.

It became their place.  The weird bastard child with no mother and father, left to the charity of his aunt and uncle, and the see-through Ghost Girl.  They were the best of friends.  They did everything there.  It was where she had gone to cry over her brother Rhaegar's death, her brother Viserys running away and leaving them, all the kids making fun of her, and the highs and lows of friendship and heartbreak.  They watched meteor showers and stared at the stars, they both had their first drunk moments there-- and hangovers-- the first time they sampled Shade of the Evening-- she hated it, he threw up-- where she hid her cat Drogon from her mother for a week before he got out and ended up in her bedroom.

It was where they had their first kiss-- she wanted to know what it was like and he had already told his cousin he'd kissed someone-- laughing and giggling through it.  Then it was where they relaized they were in love with each other, shouting and angry because he'd gone on a few days with Ygritte Wilde who was telling everyone she'd taken his virginity and where she had been stood up on a 'date' that turned out to be his stupid fucking cousin Sansa setting her up for humilation.

They'd admitted their love, they had fumbled through their first time there-- and second, third, and fourth too.  It was where everything important happened.

It was where he broke her heart.  Where she broke his.

She stared up at it, reaching up with a branch to knock at the rope ladder, grunting from effort since it was caked to the wood from years of weather and countless leaves falling.  A clump of leaves and sticks fell, almost showering her with the detritus, and she smiled, lightly touching the frayed rope.  "Well if I die climbing this thing, that's appropriate," she muttered, hooking her foot into the bottom and making her way up.

It was like time stood still in the treehouse.

It was dusty, piles of leaves and dirt in the corners.  There was a blanket that had been eaten through by some animal, nothing but thread now.  She used to be able to stand straight up in it, but now she crouched, glancing around, smiling at it all.  There were a couple of band posters they'd tacked up, the paper caked onto the walls now.  If she touched it it would probably turn to dust.

And the trunk in the middle, with the carved heart, weather worn and the wood darkened.  She traced her finger along it.  DANY + JON.

She hadn't seen him yet; the funeral wasn't until tomorrow.

They had a lot to catch up on, she supposed, rocking onto her heels.  It was for self preservation she'd left him that morning.  That they'd ceased all communication.  It would kill her to keep it up.  They needed to leave.  To create their own lives and futures.

She exhaled, a puff of cold air coming out and she frowned, glancing down and realizing that the ashtray that she had made in art class was still there.  Except there was a single cigarette butt in it.  Delicately, she lifted it, and her eyes widened; it was still warm.  "Bloody hells," she cursed.

"Hi Dany."

Whipping her head, she fell backwards onto her butt, feet sliding under her.  She gaped at the opposite doorway; the back entrance up to the house, the way that they had to take if one of them had pulled up the rope ladder.  "Jon," she gasped.

He looked good.  Dark curls over his forehead and ears, his beard trim and lines threading from his eyes.  Gray, singular eyes, that made her think of the winter storms and the angry seas.  He smiled shyly, an arm draped over his knee.  "I heard you and...and I don't know why I hid," he admitted, shy.

She swallowed hard.  She wanted to yell at him for some reason.  He'd been in the papers six months ago; a dangerous mission at the Wall.  He could have died.  "Jon," she repeated.

He scooted a little closer to her.  "You look good."

Her hair was shorter than it had been.  She didn't know what to say.  What did you say after all this time to hte only man you had ever loved?  The only boy?  She took a deep breath, exhaled hard, and then did the only thing she suspected one could do.

She kissed him.

Lunged towards him, arms flying about his neck, and planted her mouth so hard on his, she knocked him backwards, and he grunted, the breath pushed out of him from her tiny body sitting on his.  He grabbed her hips and kissed her back, as urgent and desperate as her.  They were in heavy parkas and scarves, but none of that mattered, because she could hear his heart racing in time with hers, and feel the same hot bloody pulsing through him as her.

He broke the kiss a second later, hand rising to cup her cheek; it was cold, but she didn't mind, because the shock reminded her this was real.  "Dany," he sighed.

"I love you," she mumbled.  Tears trickled down her cheeks.  "I love you still Jon.  I don't care if you've changed, or...or if you're with someone or something...because I will always love you."

He smiled slowly and nuzzled his nose against hers, their hot breaths mingling.  "I love you too."  He paused, his brow wrinkling.  "And...and there's no one..  There's never been anyone but you."

They had so much to talk about, so much to catch up on, but for now, she needed to just remind herself that he was there, with her, in their safe space, away from anyone else.  She kissed him again, and again, and buried her face into his neck, smiling, finally at home.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

Homecoming Part 2: Empirical Evidence (Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader)

synopsis: you don’t really get along with Satoru (but when did you ever?) and that leads you to drawing two hypotheses. But only one with be tested tonight. 

word count: 2.1k

trigger warning: NSFW because *smut*! 

A/N: We’re back by popular demand with a part 2 of Homecoming! Thank you to @sandyscastle​ for requesting this! I hope you enjoy it :) (omg we literally just talked and I’m so sorry I forgot it was YOU WHO REQUESTED THIS! Please forgive my brain cell; she works overtime these days lol)

Inspired by “Together” by The xx

Soft lips dance along the outer edge of your earlobe, bringing you out of your dreams and into the sunlit room. “You don’t have to speak,” the man behind you whispers. “I know what you’re going to say.” A dragon-tattoo arm snakes around your waist and presses you closer to the body you’re nestled in, heat radiating off of its large figure. You groan, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep, but your personal - and very human - alarm clock won’t let you rest a second past your wake-up time. 

“Please,” you moan, rolling over into Suguru’s chest, hoping this show of affection would keep his incessant fingers roaming around your body and therefore, both of you in bed. But you were sorely mistaken. 

“Come on… we have a short day today. Then we can come back and take a long nap, just you and me.” Suguru presses a tender kiss to your forehead and sits up, his long hair shifting over his shoulder. You look up into his onyx eyes - briefly wondering why you spent so much time away from his gaze - and then lift up on your elbow, sighing. 

“Fine.” Suguru smiles and kisses your lips, pulling away before you can deepen it and get in a considerable amount of trouble. 

“That’s my girl.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

“Satoru, get me out of this tree right now.” 

The blindfolded sorcerer below you laughs childishly, hands on his stomach while you give him the evil eye, albeit, upside down. Was the evil eye even effective if you were upside down? 

“Y/n… you- your-'' You thank the heavens you wore pants and not the skirt you originally considered putting on, but it doesn't make you feel any less embarrassed. 

“Let me down right now or I’m going to scream,” you warn, but Nobara joins in on Gojo’s laughter, apparently more amused by your predicament. Either Gojo liked putting you into trees, or it just so happened that every time you went flying, a large tree was nearby to catch you. It was becoming an annoying habit that could have easily been avoided if--

“Is this part of training?” A voice grumbles over the exhalations of your peers, and you angle your head to look at Geto, who is striding closer to where you dangled precariously. Yuji and Fushiguro are behind him, trying their best not to explode into laughter themselves. But Suguru is not amused. 

“I didn’t do it!” Nobara quickly sobers up, putting her cursed tools away. “I-it was Gojo-sensei!” Gojo is rolling around in the grass and clutching his stomach, and you slide your eyes over to Suguru again. He catches your pleading gaze and shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Satoru,” he calls out over the man’s cackles, but Gojo refuses to acknowledge him at all, still wrapped up in a joke that only he understands and enjoys. “Satoru.” 

Before you can swivel your head, Suguru has Satoru with his hands behind his back, twisting his right arm painfully. 

“Okay, okay!” Satoru whines and you feel hands gently pulling you out of the branches and setting you on the ground. 

“There you go,” Yuji announces and you stand up, dusting yourself off. Wordlessly, you trudge past the trainees and back to the dorms, followed closely by Suguru and an apologizing Satoru, but you pay them no mind. It isn’t until you’re in the bathroom, picking out leaves and sticks from your hair, that Suguru speaks.

“Mind telling me what happened?” 

“Satoru always does this. He always embarrasses me when I’m trying to teach or guide, and I don’t know why.” 

“Y/n…” Geto begins but you cut him off with a withering stare. 

“You saw it - back when we were just grade twos - he’s always had it out for me, and I-- But that’s your best friend, so you’d side with h-” 

“Hey,” Suguru presses his hands against your shoulders, which are now shaking as you prepare to cry. “You can always talk to me about Satoru. He’s a prick, and I know that. We all know that.” He cups your face in his hands, and pulls you in close for a forehead kiss before swallowing you in a tight hug. “What would make you feel better right now?” 

“I don’t know…” you whisper into his chest, and he replies, 

“Can I run you a hot bath?” You nod, your forehead rubbing against his cotton tee, and he walks over to the claw-foot tub with you still in his arms. The awkward shuffle is ended when you reach the edge of the porcelain fixture, and he turns the knobs with ease, letting the water run freely. A kiss is planted on your cheek before he untangles himself from you and does what only he knows how to do - which is prepping the bathtub with epsom salts, bubbles, and tossing in a stashed-away bath bomb from your last trip to the mall. 

When it lands at the bottom of the tub with a thunk, you know it’s time for you to strip down and sink into the indigo colored water. The water is almost hot enough to be painful, but somehow, Suguru knows how to make everything just right. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, sitting on the side of the bathtub with ease, dipping a hand in to test the temperature. 

“It’s all perfect,” you whisper, leaning your head back and closing your eyes. 

_______________________________________________________________________

“Remember when they used to braid flowers into your hair?” you wonder, fingers deftly weaving a braid on the left side of his head to match the right braid already completed. You’re sitting on the couch, watching some mindless game show while Suguru sits between your legs on the floor. 

“I remember,” he murmurs, taking the finished braid and twirling the end around his fingers. “I also distinctly remember you being much too shy to actually do anything other than pick the little flowers.” You swat at his shoulder playfully, outraged that he would even mention your former shyness. 

“Okay, but can you blame me? You always looked like you were about to eat me alive before I really got to know you.” 

“Eat you alive?” Suguru turns his head and raises an eyebrow curiously. “Eat you out, more like…” he mutters, but it’s still loud enough for you to hear. 

“But you never did. And you never have,” you retort, wrapping the final tie around the left braid. “Besides, I don’t think you’re the kind of guy to even eat a girl out before you’ve--” 

“Before I’ve what?” Suguru asks, flipping over and caging you between his arms on the couch. You pause, unsure of how to reply with him hovering over you like a lion above it’s prey, but you find your voice a moment later.

“Before you… you know… get your rocks off.” 

“You’re wrong about that, y/n,” he whispers, sliding over and laying you across the length of the couch. “But I don’t know if my word would satisfy you.” 

“I’ll take empirical evidence over your word,” you answer, his hand smoothing across your face, which is illuminated by the demi-light of the television. 

“Say no more,” Suguru replies, capturing your lips in a kiss that makes your ears block out the sound of the TV. Your eyes instantly close, and all you can feel are his lips and his hands roaming across your skin - just how you like it. Hands dance around the waistband of your leggings, tugging a little before drifting underneath and rolling them down your legs. A finger probes past your underwear, and you feel it seeking, feeling, searching for something more than you had currently. Suguru removes his hand and lifts your leg up, still holding you captive under his lips, and tugs your underwear off, casting them aside without care. 

When he breaks the kiss, you moan and his hands push both of your legs up and over his shoulders. It isn’t until he’s practically facing your core that you feel something warm and wet trailing down your thigh and straight there, making your hips jerk as his tongue makes instant contact. 

“Su…” Your nickname for him had stuck with you all of these years, and now you were finally using it the way you always wanted to. He hums in response but doesn’t stop eating you out, his tongue eagerly flicking to and fro like he needed a second dinner. Your hand lands on his braided head and he groans a little, quickening his flicks and drags across your flesh like a searing-hot iron. With ease, he slides a thick finger inside of you, curling it and moving his lips to suck on your clit, pulsing his sucks with the timing of his finger-thrusts. 

“M-more...” When you look down, his eyes are already focused on your panting expression, and you’re trying hard not to cum from just the sight alone. But Suguru wordlessly encourages you to cum by rolling your clit with his tongue, and you toss our head back, moaning loudly, which accompanies his obscene slurping sounds and hums of pleasure. Your orgasm isn’t too far from reach - you can literally feel him teasing it out of you bit by bit - and all it takes is one good stroke of his finger to make you tip over the edge and into oblivion. 

Words, shapes, numbers, thoughts, they all fade into the abyss with you as you lose yourself in the sensation of being absolutely unraveled. When you find your shape again, you curl your fingers back into fists and Suguru removes his face from your core and shucks off his pants and boxers. Before he can climb onto you, he whispers, 

“Do you want to do this?” 

“Yes, yes!” You grab at his shirt and pull him in closer, lips crashing against each other sloppily as you pull him back down. He strokes his cock one, two, three times, and lines himself up with your entrance, nudging the head against you slightly. Your mouth opens as he sinks into you and sheathes himself with a loud, drawn out groan. You whimper, holding onto the arms placed at your sides as he moves slowly, face hovering centimeters over yours. 

“Breathe for me.” He pulls out a little, and you let go of a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. He tucks a kiss between your jaw and earlobe, pushing back into with as much caution as he can muster while his arms are steady beneath him, But his strength is giving way to the absolute need he has to go faster, and you urge him on by clutching your fingers a little tighter onto his arms. 

“P-please, Su…” He responds by increasing his pace incrementally, and you let out a stifled moan, trying your best not to be too loud as he fucks you senseless. 

“I want to hear you,” Suguru huffs, now moving his hips in a timely and pleasurable pace. “You can be as loud as you want with me.” 

That’s all the permission you need. 

“Ah! Oh- my- gosh-” Each thrust is accented by the noises you utter, and you find yourself close to the brink yet again, feeling sensations you hadn’t felt in such a long time. 

“Let me hear you,” Su urges again, murmuring in your ear and holding you close to his chest. “ I missed hearing that beautiful voice of yours.” 

“Feels… so good.” You can barely catch your breath as the thrusts speed up even more, and you feel Suguru tense up a little. “Cum with me, Su,” you plead, and he grunts once, teeth grazing your earlobe. Your arousal sounds like squelches of pleasure while his hips pop against the soft flesh of your ass cheeks, drowning out the sounds of anything else in the room while he drills into you. 

“Almost there…” His voice is wavering, you notice, and it sounds like he’s closer than he wants to let on, but you wrap your arms around his neck and lean your head back. The arch in your back is supported by one of Suguru’s large hands and you choke out a moan as your legs shake violently underneath him, your orgasm right at it’s crest. “Ohhhhhh, shit…” 

In a show of perfect timing, Suguru comes with you, both of you filling the air with exhales of ecstasy. Both of your ejaculate mixes together in your core, filling it with a warm sensation as you come down from your high, holding each other while you catch your breath. 

“Are you going to change your little hypothesis, or will I have to show you more evidence?” Suguru finally asks, and you laugh gently. 

“I think I need a few more trials before I can amend my hypothesis.” He sits up a little, eyeing you mischievously through his lashes.

“Then, let’s get to it, Ms. Scientist.”

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 11- At Last

Summary: Finally reunited with Geralt, the two of you attempt to avoid Nilfgaard and find a tavern for the evening, although it appears destiny has other plans.

Warning: angst, fluff

 Masterlist

-last and final chapter my Witcher friends, that is until next season, and yes I will be continuing reader and Geralt’s story. There’ll be more monster slaying and adventures to come!

Within minutes after reuniting with your silver haired lover, did the two of you immediately find a spot elsewhere from the main trail for well...you know. A place hidden away from any unwanted prying eyes so that you both could show one another just how much you've desperately missed each other, in more ways then one. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so euphoric, perhaps that's just what making sweet love to your Witcher does to you. Even when he's pounding you against a tree while whispering the most dirtiest of sweet nothings into your ear.

You hadn't touched him like this in weeks, nor seen him for that matter, but he felt wonderful and seemed to be enjoying his time with you just the same. Though all too soon would your bodies have to part from one another's close embrace. All to your utter disappointment did the two of you end your hasty love making session, seeing as the land is closely crawling with Nilfgaard soldiers and who knows what else.

You got what you could get, and anyways, that won't be the first nor last time you two fuck in the woods.

The grass feels soft against your clothed bottom as you lace up your boot, your gaze set to the individual across from you as your eyes unbashfuly admire Geralt while he lays in the grass shirtless. His beautiful golden irises staring up into the tree tops as the wind sways the leaves every which way.

You pull at the leather strings, tying a confident knot with skilled hands while a small breeze blows your hair back, you're admittedly feeling quite delightful if you're being honest. Though when your crimson eyes glance up at the snowy haired man again, he's turned his head to you.

Your eyes meet at once, sending a blissful smirk upon your lips, "Anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?" You teased, narrowing your eyes in a playful manner.

Geralt's lips curl into a half smile as he lets out a small hum in reply. Setting your arms upon your propped up knees, you freely show him an eye roll. Earning a proper chuckle from the man, "Y/N I was simply cherishing your stunning appearance."

Shaking your head you smile, "Yes, of course you were. And I am simply looking at a shirtless man with the most utter respect and clean of thoughts in my mind." You casually shrug, "Nothing else going on in here, I promise."

Geralt raises a greyish brow, moving to prop himself up upon his elbow, "That sounds honest." He hums, "But you are no virtuous maiden my love, and by that telling look on your face only moments ago. I can only imagine what things you may have been thinking of then."

You let out a snort before deciding to crawl over to him, where he lets you push him back into the grass, "Indeed I am not." You whisper close, leaning on an elbow as your other hand caresses his cheek, "But I am undoubtedly in love with a Witcher of all creatures to walk this earth, so if we're using our heads, what does that truly say of me then?"

His golden eyes keep to yours as he brings a hand to rest over your arm, "I would say it means perhaps I am a fool to fall for one of my enemies' creations, my dear Y/N..." He pauses for a moment, taking this brief second to focus on you and only you as he holds you with the most care, "you are most cunning and beautiful."

Leaning into his small touch you grin blissfully, a feeling of ease and calmness setting over you as Geralt studies your face, "You are no fool my White Wolf. That I am sure of without a doubt in my mind, I can't seem to be able to even jest about it." You chuckle, "Though you tempt me at times." The smile that he gives you is the most precious thing your eyes could ever be blessed with, its warm and genuine, filled with the deepest and most purest of love for you. His lady of night, the one monster he could never slay, nor would he ever dare.

Though your heart fills with joy for him, a sudden sadness seeps into your soul, obstructing your happiness. Your eyes fall downcast as you move to lay yourself next to Geralt in the grass, he follows you closely, a frown displaying itself upon his handsome features at your sudden spurt of melancholy.

"What troubles you Y/N?" Wonders Geralt, shifting his body so that he can rest an arm over your chest, pulling you in close as he studies your face.

Resting a hand on Geralt's muscular arm, you frown once again, "I was brief about my short time in Aretuza and the Elven keep, I know I told you about all those bastard soldiers I killed and when I helped the mages the best I could.....it's just. I haven't told you everything." Your voice feels so small in the large forest, now since you think about it. You haven't had the time to completely process what happened at Sodden's Hill, with all those soldiers, the other mages, and especially Yennefer.

So much death.

His brow furrows in thought, unsure of what you're going to reveal next, all he knows is that he doesn't plan on letting you go for awhile longer. Your Witcher hums in reply, giving you a moment to find your words. Taking a deep heavy sigh you turn your head to look out at the clouds. "We tried to protect the North from Nilfgaard, those fuckers had their own spout of powerful mages to test against our own. For the whole day we all fought together...every man, woman, child, and mage. Fucking farmers and tired refugees, they weren't warriors, Geralt. None of them were."

You take another shaky breath as Geralt presses his head against your cheek, "I did what I could to save them. But I'm just one person, I couldn't save them all....though I must admit, those people fought braver then most royal soldiers I've ever seen. They have good heart in them....well, I guess did. Not many survivors I think, just the ones who had enough sense to get the fuck out of there.....and of course myself, Tissaia, Triss, and Yenn..." A small lump forms in your throat as you remember what happened, causing you to choke on your own words for a moment.

You bite your lip hard, your hand squeezing tightly onto Geralt's muscular forearm as you collect yourself enough to speak, though your voice is raspy and broken, "Yennefer, right. She fought valiantly like a true warrior, she was like a phoenix, like a raging mighty dragon of power and flame...Geralt you should have seen her." A tear falls down the side of your face as you smile into the cloud covered sun, your voice above a whisper, "I'd never seen anything like it....it was.....beautiful."

A light kiss is placed gently over your tear streak while his hand moves to find yours, "What I would have given to see you slay those dogs alongside Yennefer, Y/N. I'm sure she is proud to call you a friend."

"She's dead." Those two words leave your lips so quietly that Geralt almost doesn't catch them, but he does.

The heavy weight of this news takes him off guard, he did not expect you to just lay such tragic tidings over him like that, he may have been greatly annoyed by Yennefer but he did see that stubborn mage as a friend. Though his heart hurts for how broken and defeated you feel from the terrors you'd underwent only yesterday, the great loss you've experienced, all of your traumas crashing down atop your soul in this moment. He wants to comfort you the best he can.

He listens to the steady beating of your heart, understanding how sad yet angry you're feeling, "I'm sorry Y/N. Truly I am."

A tired smile forms at the corners of your lips as you turn teary eyes over to your Witcher, your faces mere inches from one another, "She was my first real friend you know, and I think I was hers. I'm grateful to have spent the last of her hours on this earth by her side then.....glad she wasn't alone. I just wish..." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you focus on Geralt's shimmering irises once again, "I just wish the world wouldn't take everyone I give a shit about, so don't plan on doing anything stupid, okay? I can't lose anyone else or so help me god or whoever is listening out there, I will slaughter the bastards who dare take you away from me."

"I do not doubt it my love, and don't worry Y/N. I don't plan on leaving you anytime soon." He speaks honestly before pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "You have my word."

——

Geralt holds tightly to Roach's leather reigns as he keeps a firm hand over your lower abdomen, a small content smile gracing over your features while you sit comfortably in front of him on the large mare. Just as you always have.

Your hands rest over his as you keep a steady lookout over the trail ahead, silently overjoyed to be leaning against Geralt and all of his godly body holding you up. A blissfully drunken grin keeps to your face while your mind tumbles and reels with everything that he's just confided about from the last four weeks, like what you'd done earlier after a fine quick session of love making.

Apparently he's been busy.

Though for the second time today, another troubling thought randomly pops into your mind as things tend to do, and now you feel this time is as good as ever to actually address it. Squeezing his arm a bit you let out a half amused huff, showing that you're about to speak your mind on something idiotic Geralt has done, and he knows it.

Your Witcher figured you'd eventually spill your two cents, as you always seem to do.

"So." You begin, slow and filled with something Geralt's not quite sure of, he mentally cringes as you squeeze his arm again, "you just told him to fuck off and that you'd prefer to never see him ever again? Just like that? To our bard. Jaskier."

Geralt pauses for a moment as you wait for an answer, "Yes." Is all he whispers, low and filled with regret. He told you all about Jaskier and himself hours ago, hoping you wouldn't bring it back up, but of course you would. He's never that lucky, there's nothing you don't ever catch.

You raise a brow and shrug, "Can't say I blame you. That idiot has gotten our asses in a lot of shit over the years." He lets out a breath, glad you're not fuming at his heated rash actions on the mountainside after you dramatically parted ways. Suddenly you grip his arm tight, enough to actually feel uncomfortable, he sucks in a breath as you squeeze, "Although, I don't believe Jaskier completely deserved that." You seethe through clenched teeth before letting go of your iron grip. So you are angry after all, thinks Geralt, funny way of showing it.

"I know....I was just....I'm sorry Y/N." He replies, his voice much softer then he'd intended.

Your face falls as you feel the hurt in his words for what he's done, "I know Geralt." You sigh, "Enough with the sorry's and regrets okay....what's done is done and there's nothing we can do about it now. And anyways, as I like to say "we'll cross that bridge when we get there" so don't feel shitty about it now." He gives you a hidden smile as you chuckle to yourself, "You can feel shitty about it later."

Geralt lets out an amused snort, "Always one for wise words Y/N. What would I do without your kind intellect?"

"Dunno." You casually shrug, "Be a far less intriguing creature I suppose."

He tenderly kisses the top of your head, "I'd be a fool to argue against that logic."

"You're still a fool either way." You jest, cackling at your friendly jab at him, earning a gentle squeeze on your hip that sends butterflies into your stomach.

Gods the things he does to you.

For a couple more hours would you both ride Roach down the trail, past countless trees and a few streams until the sun would begin her descent over the land. Through this time you've been admittedly back to your old habits of amusing your Witcher to pass the time, mixed with seeing how long it would take to annoy him before he threatened to kick you off the mare.

It had been quite the eventful stretch of time before you caught the nasty pheromones of war seeping throughout the forest from some place close by, but not seen by your skilled eyes just yet. You held your tongue, not wanting to worry Geralt over something as insignificant as rotting corpses in the woods. But as Roach gets closer and closer, you begin to feel more strange, your scarlet irises suddenly catch a ripped tent behind a few trees.

Nilfgaard. Smell of death, more destroyed tents. Those bastards did this.

Your nose crinkles in disgust, the scent of freshly decaying corpses overloading your senses just about making your eyes water, you can't smell anything else but the stench of death.

"What I would give to be in a flower meadow right now." You seethe, blinking away the reactive tears in your eyes, Geralt looks down to you, unsure of what you mean considering his sense of smell is not nearly as prominent as yours. "I think Nilfgaard found a camp just over there, gods it reaks."

His grey brows furrow in thought, though he's left his words in the back of his throat as Roach walks closer to the carnage. Suddenly the three of you are face to face with an older man and his horse cart as he desperately and stupidly does his best to move the dead in piles for whatever it is that he's intended for them.

What a strange man.

Geralt shifts from behind you, tilting his head at the bearded man, "Ill winds follow grave robbers." States your Witcher as he hugs you closer protectively, or perhaps to keep you from doing anything destructive. The greyed man looks to the two of you, quietly acknowledging your existence before turning around to continue his doings.

"If I was a grave robber, I'd be taking their belongings, Butcher." He adds gruffly, squatting down to examine another slain body, "So best keep your beast with you." He adds, side eyeing you cautiously as he goes to move another of the deceased. Well, he knows Geralt's a Witcher and that you're not human. Maybe he's not that idiotic?

Geralt smirks, "If I was to let her satiate her appetite, you'd be amongst the corpses." The man falls silent, looking wearily between the two of you as your scarlet eyes trail over the nervous man.

He lets out a sigh, finally breaking under both your hard gazes, "I was goin' home to my family when I came upon these poor souls." He points towards the rotting bodies, "Cintran refugees. Dead at least a week. Now they're a feast for the crows."

"They're not for crows." You implore, shifting your ruby irises across the shadowy wood line while you listen to the buzzing of feasting flies. You had previously forgotten about what else may lurk in the shadows ready to feed, until now.

"Wolves?" He wonders.

"No."

Shaking his head, he ignores your odd wary vigilance, turning to glance at the two of you, "With more hands I could move quicker."

Yeah, fuck that.

"The only thing you should do quickly is flee." Warns Geralt, alert to the same understanding of what creatures may be hiding close by. The strange man grunts as he drags a body over the leaves, ignorantly discounting both your warnings.

With a click of his tongue, Geralt pulls at the mares reigns, "Come on, Roach, back to Kaer Morhen." You shake your head at the man as Roach begins to take a couple steps forward.

"Don't leave!" Pleads the bearded man, while dragging another, "Look at these people. Innocent people, killed for what?" He exclaims, sucking in labored breaths as he stands to look out over the mass of dead refugees, "So Nilfgaard can have more land? We owe it to 'em to do better."

"I'm not better." Mutters Geralt as he directs Roach away.

Always so dramatic huh.

You don't make it even three feet before your sensitive ears prick at the sound of crawling under the dirt. You know exactly what's now hunting the man, without a second thought do you break from Geralt's muscular arms to jump off of Roach.

Your feet move inhumanly fast as you race for the panicked man who's now scrambling away on the forest floor as two hungry ghouls claw for a taste. Realizing all too late that your silver dagger is lost to the ages you quickly adapt to instead aim for electrocuting the ugly fuckers.

Your palms spread wide as white hot lightening crackles and sparks in the misty night air, piercing the grotesque bodies of the living undead.

They screech in pain, giving Geralt just enough time to cut them down before they're able to recover, the man stops whimpering in fear as he turns his head up to you and Geralt. Who's now crouched a couple feet from the wide eyed man while he cleans off his sword, his eyes now two pools of glistening obsidian.

Sparks crackle in your palms as you huff in annoyance, "Go home." Your voice strong and steady.

The man snaps his attention over to you, "I can help." He insists urgently, causing you to roll your crimson eyes.

"One bite will kill you." Implores Geralt sternly.

The man turns to him, "Or you two." Then back to you again, his eyes fretful as you notice how he's just about shaking. He's terrified.

You let out a frustrated sigh, "I'm immune." You conclude gruffly, pointing to both himself and Geralt, "But not you two, so if you want to see your wife again...go home." The man stays still, breathing heavily as he sits on the soft ground, his mind swirling.

Geralt slowly stands, glaring at the man, "Go...home!" He snaps in that gravely voice of his, the petrified man stares at him before looking to your equally as stoic face. The blood red glow of your irises and the low crackling of lighting in your palm shifting his mind to a new understanding of his current situation.

He lets out a shaky breath, "All right..." Huffs the bearded man before scrambling to his feet, his boots carrying him over to his cart as he throws something into the back.

You ignore him and watch as Geralt walks slowly forward, his black eyes cautiously surveying over the land as you take a step, "Let me be the first to say, but I don't happen to feel very fond of what else follows." You whisper softly, your voice laced with concern as you sniff the foggy damp air, smelling nothing but decaying flesh as it wafts into your nostrils.

Geralt holds his weapon tightly, opening his mouth to answer, but before he's able to say anything a piercing screech breaks out from the woods. His sword flashes in the moonlight as he cuts down another hungry ghoul. Without warning another one breaks out of the earth to his right, dead in a flash as he slashes it across the throat.

The dirt bulges upward as another crawls from underneath the ground, heading directly for Geralt, the beast doesn't stand a chance as your Witcher stabs the soil directly in front of him. Killing the damn ghoul in an instant. Suddenly a black screaming flash races past you and tackles him to the ground.

"Oh fuck!" Unknowingly leaves you lips as you race to his aid, five of them have him pinned to the ground already as you pull his silver sword from the earth that he had left behind in the scuffle. These starving bastards don't see you coming as you begin slashing and hacking violently away at the ghouls. Trying your damn best to get them off of Geralt, they scream in agony as you end their half-lives.

More race out from the shadows to surround the two of you, Geralt pushes and punches more off of him as you slice through their grotesque inhuman bodies. So caught up in your own world that you don't have time to make sure if Geralt is all right when another one jumps for your arm, only to be greeted with a hard cut to its sunken in stomach.

Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as you turn your head left and right, readying for anything else. When nothing appears to move you lower his sword to your side, turning around to give Geralt a smirk and no less a cocky comment.

Your face instantly falls when he whispers a harsh "fuck" while he leans down to look at something on his left thigh. He shakes his snowy mane, standing to his full height as he takes a limped step towards you. His obsidian eyes finally finding yours as he takes another troubled step forward, he looks like a mess.

Your eyes glance down at the bite mark revealing itself from an opened spot in his dark pants, you suck in a sharp breath, your face dead serious as you watch him with wide glossy eyes. His face looks rough and sweaty as he limps closer, suddenly falling to his knees as he stares at you, almost pleadingly, his dark eyes full of pain.

"Geralt?" You whisper, your nerves standing on end at the sight of him, no way he's just been bitten, it can't be.

Your lip quivers as you drop the forgotten sword upon the earth, taking hasty steps as he looks tiredly into your frightened face. You quickly kneel down to meet his eye level as he lets out a shaky breath, your hands gently touch his dirt smudged face as he wills his hands to grasp your arms.

His grip is unnaturally weak as you look deeply into his eyes, your voice shaky, "You're fine. You're fine, it's just a small wound nothing worth worrying over....it's just..it's nothing...you're fi...." His head falls downward in your palms as his hands slip from their place on your arms, "No, no, no, no....Geralt, love look at me! Look at me!" He answers back with a low groan, you swallow the building lump in your throat as he struggles to lift his tired gaze to yours.

The weakest of smiles displays over his handsome features as he lets out a tired sigh, "You're beautiful....you know that?" His voice is soft and broken as you hold up his face, biting your lip to keep from crying. He smiles sluggishly, "Thank you for loving me...I....Y/N...I...love y..."

Suddenly his eyes shut as he goes limp against you, you catch him and quickly move to gently position his body so that his head can rest in your lap, "Geralt no!" You exclaim desperately through tears that are starting to blur your vision, "Wake up! Wake the fuck up you dick...you can't leave me here!" You shake his shoulder but to no avail, "Fuck! No, no, no....I just got you back." Tears race down your cheeks as a sob racks through your entire body, you suck in a breath, trying to contain your pain.

This isn't fucking fair!

The old man hustles to your side, now made aware of the dire circumstances, "Ohhh, dear...Uh....we can take him to my house, if you will.....Just, keep him awake." Proposes the man, you hold Geralt closer, your wet cheeks glistening in the moonlight as your crimson eyes glow blood red.

"If you help me save him I won't end your pathetic life because of your stupidity!" You snap, making him flinch backwards as you glare at him, a low growl emitting from deep within your throat. If Geralt dies you might tear this man to shreds.

He quickly regains his bearings, now understanding that his life is at stake if Geralt dies under his care. The man walks around you, reaching down to pull Geralt from out of your lap. Once you're free he looks to you, "Miss he's quite heavy, this one. Could you lift his legs and help me carry him to...."

He's left with nothing but a genuinely bewildered look as you pick your sleeping Witcher up, holding him in both your arms while ignoring the mans shocked expression as you walk over to the large wooden cart. Setting Geralt in the back on a couple soft bags of goods.

Jumping in next to him, you kneel down by his side while the man quickly ties Roach to the back. It's going to be a long night. Until dawn broke out over the horizon, the great sun coating the land in daylight would you lay by his side as he slept through the multitude of hours.

Finally coming to in the late morning, looking more pale then usual and clearly disoriented, his golden irises trying so hard to focus on your blurry face. The man, who revealed himself to be Yurga, kept his horses at a fast trot while you continued to hold tightly onto your Witcher's arm, squeezing it every time he would begin to close his eyes. Just keep him awake.

"I don't know about you." Starts Yurga, "But I'm not liking the sound of those explosions in the distance....bloody Nilfgaard better keep themselves far away from here. We don't need trouble like that round these parts. Not after everything they've done."

Geralt stirs underneath your touch, snapping your attention back down to him, you watch as his eyelids open and close, his golden irises looking rather lost and hazy. He's so pale, too pale.

"Easy does it Butcher." Affirms Yurga as he turns his head to the side, "You got bit, best keep your sights trained on the pretty lady in front of you."

Geralt's brows furrow as he turns his own head to the side at the sound of the mans voice, confusion clear on his face since the poison from the ghouls has begun to mess with his mind. Seated closely on his right, his muscular arm on your left and his broad body on your right, his face is much more faded in color now. Too pale and sickly looking for your liking.

Reaching an arm out, you gently touch his face, turning his head back to you, "Geralt, keep those fine golden eyes on me, you gotta focus love....you're becoming delirious, but you're not dead. Just stay awake Geralt I'll be right here." He blinks hard, his face appearing dazed as he listens, suddenly trying to sit himself up.

You quickly react, leaning over him to grasp both his arms, stopping him from moving anymore, "Be still Geralt. You'll only make things worse if you try and move, your bite is spreading slowly but moving will only bring you more pain." His face grimaces in discomfort, you release your grip, sitting normally once again.

Oh Geralt, be strong for me.

Your face a mask of deep worry at his reaction, he may be a Witcher, but if his wounds are not treated properly he will die. Leaving you completely and utterly alone in this world whether you're ready for it or not. You rest a hand over his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat, he stares up at the sky, his gaze lost in the clouds.

You can tell he's probably watching some hallucination playing out before him, his gaze seems so far away while you sit here on this stupid hay covered cart pulled by the slowest two horses you've ever seen. He stirs again, his pale face trying to find yours as he focuses in on your worried appearance.

You can tell he's back, especially when his left arm quickly takes yours that was previously resting over his chest. He squeezes your hand, "My bag. Y/N I need my bag." His voice his gravelly and urgent, you quickly turn to look around, the pull of the cart jostling you while your eyes hunt for the bag.

"Yurga stop the fucking horses for a moment!" You yell, letting go of Geralt's hand as you grab the leather bag. Yurga directs his horses to stop, turning abruptly around to see what's the matter.

"The bottle....Y/N.....you know which one." Rasps Geralt as your eyes quickly find the small glass bottle containing some dark liquid, a type of healing potion for sure.

Handing the potion to your Witcher he hastily takes it, ripping off the cork with his teeth before making a face and chugging most of it. He groans, pouring the rest over his infected wound, more groans of pain sounding as you listen to the sizzle of flesh take to the healing mixture.

Gently patting his arm you hand him a small smile of reassurance, "You definitely need a healer, I'm afraid not even my blood can heal these wounds. Those fucking ghouls." You growl as Yurga urges his horses to begin trotting down the trail again.

His body rests against the piles of clothes and hay while his hand reaches out for yours, "I need to go to the Blue Mountains....Y/N...tell him I need to...." Mutters Geralt with tired eyes.

You squeeze his hand, "What? No, we don't have....you don't have enough time, Geralt you'll die."

"He'll heal me....I just need to go...."

"No!" You cry, there is absolutely no way you'd both make it to the Blue Mountains before his heart stops beating, "Stay awake you fucker, we'll heal you soon enough, just stay awake....we're almost to Yurga's farm. You'll get proper treatment there....just stay awake."

Until the sun would set and the darkness of night crept over the land would you constantly play as an ever continuous jostling annoyance to Geralt, doing all that you must to keep him awake and alive. Soon enough would Yurga have to stop and let his old horses rest for awhile. In the meantime, you'd help Geralt to lean against a tree as you went off in search of healing plants that could help to temporarily stop the spread.

With not much to give from your herb hunting, you walked forth from out of the bushes and into the grassy tree covered opening where you're greeted with the sight of a dark-red haired mage tending to your Witcher's infected bite wound. You immediately freeze, though she's too focused to even realize that you're watching her work. For a couple minutes would you observe her talents before blinking once and suddenly she's gone. Just like that, gone.

Well that was fucking bizarre.

Suddenly Geralt bolts upright, your brows furrow as he looks all around him, his wide eyes shifting right and left until they finally find your familiar form walking closer. He lets out an audible sigh of relief, before his grey brows furrow once again in thought.

"Where'd she go? The woman?" He wonders, confusion clear on his face as he watches you crouch down to meet his eye level.

You raise a brow, "Can't say I'd know, but I wish I'd have time to thank her for doing whatever magical mage shit she did to your infected bite mark." You reply with a chuckle, "Now you've gotten yourself a new scar added to the collection. Though still a very handsome work of art in my humble opinion."

His face softens at your relaxed tone, suddenly realizing that there's no need to worry anymore, "Thank you Y/N."

You laugh, "What for? I didn't do that much, I didn't even know how to properly heal you. And I definitely wasn't planning on turning you into a vampire just to have you around longer."

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as you study his face, "For keeping me awake this long, no matter how much I wanted to shove you off the wagon."

"I knew you wanted to do it, I could see it in your face. That is, when you weren't staring off into nothing like a lost boy who had too many special herbs." You jest, earning a pleasing chuckle from your sweaty Witcher. You smile, "Now. Come on my love, let's go." You reach a hand out for him to take, without a second thought he accepts, letting you pull him to his feet.

He shakes his head, steadying himself as he holds your arms, "Geralt you're acting like you've just downed half a dozen mugs of ale, lets rest on the cart yeah? Yurga will take us to his farm where we can get some proper food and drink, and if we're lucky....you some new pants."

His smile is soft as he looks down at you, Geralt touches your chin affectionately, "That sounds rather lovely."

Before he can do anything else you grasp the hand that's touching your chin, "I know exactly where your mind is going next and all I have to say is you're getting a bit more cleaned up before those pretty lips of yours are allowed to kiss me." He closes his eyes, resting his head against yours as he releases his hand from your chin. Now pulling you closer with his large strong hands.

"I could have died." He mutters, his gravely voice laced with a friendly playfulness.

"But you didn't."

"I could have."

"I know." You finally sigh, "You're still sweaty and smell like a dog who rolled in cow shit."

He lightly chuckles, "That's rude." Before pressing a feather light kiss onto your forehead where he then pulls away after a moment, "Guess we should help the old man pack the rest of his bags away."

Gripping his torso tighter you lean in close, "I'm enjoying myself too much." You admit, "Even though you smell rather atrocious at the moment."

"Oh please Y/N." Muses Geralt, his face inches from yours, "You still called be pretty when I was covered head to toe in Selkiemore guts, if I do recall."

"Did I? Must have slipped." You mutter lowly, brushing your lips past his.

"Y/N." Warns Geralt, his hot breath fanning over your smirking face as your ruby irises flicker from his plush lips to his golden eyes.

"On second thought. Perhaps you do look rather lovely at the moment, I think I'll just have to..." He's left guessing what you would have said next as your lips press firmly against his, both your arms pulling one another even closer now. Despite all he's just endured, Geralt tastes quite nice, his muscular body feeling even better holding you so close.

His lips move with yours in some pleasurable heated dance, soon enough does his calloused hands reach up to place themselves on either side of your face, you smile into the kiss at his urgency to hold you close. A couple more lingering blissful moments are shared flush against one another before your Witcher inevitably pulls away, first pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips once again before finally pulling away to look into your glistening eyes.

His hands still gently holding your cheeks, while your own ones grip around his forearms, "I hope there's more of that for when we find a tavern later." You muse, biting your lip as Geralt's eyes stare deeply into yours.

"Y/N. I'll let you take me any way you want." Mutters Geralt in that low and gravelly voice of his, "Just me and you."

"I think I'd like that very much." His lips find yours once again as your fingers trail down his back, wishing so hard that you were both laying on a soft warm bed in some hidden tavern in the mountains.

While you're both unbashfully exploring each others bodies like it was the first time, a sudden cough is heard from behind you causing the two of you to abruptly pull apart and look in that direction, "Uh...don't mean to intrude, but uh.....could we get moving if ya both don't mind?" Asks Yurga politely, trying not to find either of your amused gazes as he looks at a stick on the ground.

Right, you'd probably want to get out of the woods first.

The merchant Yurga had been true to his word, he had finally at long last made it to his home placed in a great clearing within the woods. A comfortable farmhouse on an open spot of land away from the fighting and battles nearby. His cart came to an abrupt halt as his wife quickly opened up the door and raced out to meet him, excitement flowing through her veins as a huge smile graced her face.

"We're all okay. The war is close, but we're okay. I need to tell you something." Exclaims Yurga's blonde curly haired wife.

"Me too." Affirms the older man with a slight thrill lacing his words.

His wife smiles, "I met a girl. An orphan, I found her in the woods nearby." Geralt halts all movement at the startling words, you doing the same as both of your furrowed gazes find one another.

No way this is who you think she's actually talking about. Hundreds of girls have been orphaned by the war.

"I met a Witcher." Speaks Yurga with a nod, "And a dhampir, if you'll believe it." Without warning Geralt jumps down from the cart and begins walking towards the woods much to your confusion, "They saved my life. Now fetch 'em some ale before they go to Kaer Mor-somthing." Urges Yurga, while you jump down from the cart, making hasty steps in Geralt's direction as Yurga and his wife finally look over to watch as the two of you make for the woods, "Hey, Butcher. Butcher! Where you goin'?" Shouts Yurga as Geralt continues onward, almost caught in a trance as he ignores the rambling merchant.

"Y/N?" Shouts the older man, causing you to stop and turn to him, "Where you two goin'?"

Your brows furrow, not completely sure of yourself, "I don't know." You whisper, keeping your body still as you look out at the thick greenery where Geralt had just wandered into for some unknown reason. You can't explain why, but you feel as though this is a path that only he must take.

The girl in the woods will be with him always.

He walks through the forest, his feet taking him somewhere or rather to someone who's been hiding from him for a long time. He can't even fully explain it, the call he feels to find what he's seeking. He suddenly stops, thinking his thoughts must be false and this urge to find who lingers in the wood is simply horseshit as per usual. A false sense of destiny. He turns around, walking a couple steps further back the way he came before an undeniable urge to look back consumes him.

The girl in the woods will be with you always.

And there she is, Princess Cirilla of Cintra, a shining beacon of hope in the dull wet gloom of the towering forest.

Destiny has prevailed.

Your boots shift from right to left as you stand idly in the morning air, your thoughts swimming around in your head of what could be taking Geralt so damn long, even if it's only realistically been about three minutes. Your new friends from behind you have instead left you to yourself and decided to tend to their horses, much to your relief.

Hugging yourself closer, you shiver, though you're not cold. A kind of magic of sorts seems to catch you in the misty air, a feeling you haven't felt since that night at Pavetta's banquet pulls around you like leaves on the wind.

How odd it feels, yet this seems right.

Two heartbeats reach your heightened ears, one so slow. But the other, beats normally like that of a child's.

You take a step back, steadying yourself as you wait for who you're expecting to inevitably appear. Shoes move across earth and leaves, signaling their close arrival. Your nerves die as two shadows emerge from the bushes and into the sunlight, the two of them are talking, unaware of your presence in the yard.

The child suddenly looks, her enchanted blue green irises falling onto you as she quickly comes to a halt, her eyes full of wonder and nervous apprehension. Geralt's brows furrow as he stops as well, his face turning to find the source of the girls fear.

His golden eyes spot you in an instant, he finds you staring curiously at the small blonde girl, the tiniest of smiles gracing your lips as you fiddle with your hands. You can't help but feel ridiculous for how you've been feeling about meeting this Child Surprise after so long, she is just a girl, a survivor of the unspeakable. Though you may not be the best with children in general, you feel no ill will against this one, all those previous feelings of loathing and judgement are gone to the wind.

Geralt's eyes are kind as he gently rests a comforting hand over her thin shoulder, she looks to him now then back to you as he speaks, "This is Y/N of Alkatraz, the dhampir princess of the High Northern Kingdom. My uh, lover?" He says cautiously, a bit unsure of what to truly call you before he thankfully finds his words, "Well...uh, my immortal companion, and someone who I love very deeply."

Oh, Geralt you adorable idiot.

Ciri's brows furrow in thought for a moment as she finds her courage, "My grandmother told me of that kingdom, she said it is ruled by vampires. Are you one?" She wonders, her voice a small nervous whisper.

The corners of your eyes crinkle in amusement as you smile, shaking your head, "No my dear princess, I am of that blood and character, but a dhampir is what I am as Geralt said. It's someone who is half vampire and half human." You assure the small girl, "No need to fear me, I promise you princess that I would never harm you in any way, you have my word."

A small grin tugs at the corners of her lips before her eyes fall downcast, "That's very kind, most people I've met so far out here have tried to kill me." She hands you the flash of a smile, "Glad to know not everyone is like them." She reveals freely to you with her small voice, so this is truly the Child Surprise.

The princess of Cintra.

"With us, you will not have to fear the damned talons of Nilfgaard Princess Cirilla...I will protect you with my life now."

Her brows furrow in thought at your truthful words, "You know of me? But how?"

You smile kindly, your scarlet irises flashing over to Geralt for a brief moment, "I have traveled with this handsome Witcher for almost fifty years, I know everything he knows. Even who you are." You take a couple steps forward, kneeling down to face her sad eyes, "And I am truly sorry for your loss, no child deserves the pain and fear you have endured since Cintra's fall. No less the horrors you have witnessed since your escape, these lands are undoubtedly deadly."

"Thank you, Y/N." She looks from you to Geralt, "I'm glad to have found you both then." You smile, standing up fully to lace your arm with Geralt's.

"Now, I think these kind people here may have breakfast waiting for us and some ale if I'm lucky, so my small friend Ciri, would you join us for a decently peaceful morning?" Ciri gifts your ears with a small giggle as Geralt hums in amusement. Proud that you're taking so well to the newest addition to your group of two.

You turn around just as the curly haired woman waves, "Would you all mind joining us for breakfast?" She calls out as a satisfied grin breaks out upon your face, "Of course we would be delighted!" You shout back, probably with too much excitement but you're trying to look as non threatening as possible. Also you are admittedly very hungry.

The three of you begin walking toward the farmhouse, Ciri follows the woman and her husband inside as Geralt stops near the entrance, you turn a raised brow to him, "What is it now? You planning on finding another magical orphan in the woods again?"

He looks down at the muddy ground before finding your lingering gaze once again, "No, just trying to figure out what to do next." Grumbles your Witcher in that lovable gravely voice of his.

You gently squeeze his hand as a smirk plays at your lips, "How bout we think of breakfast first? Then we can set our sights on paying our friends at Kaer Morhen a little visit. Bet they'd love that." You add sarcastically, wiggling your brows.

Your Witcher finally gives you a small smile, "Oh, I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you again." He jests.

Lightly smacking his arm you take a step into the doorway, turning back to look at him, "What? Am I not nice and lovable? Can't believe you'd even say that."

"Only when you want to be." Mutters Geralt before gently kissing the side of your head while walking past you, "Now lets get some ale."

-

Tagged:  @seninjakitey​  @notahappytree​ @ashleyforeverareject​ @sokkasdarling​ @kmuir1​​@haleypearce @diegos-butt​ (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work) @a-girl-who-loves-disney

[delldarling]

the city is hoarding hearts | arroven

male dragon x gender/body neutral reader 9015 words lemon | mention of drinking alcohol, face riding, size difference, fairly submissive monster, penetrative sex, poetry, touch starved note: behold! my modern epic fantasy universe! this world first appeared back in August for my Patreon Story of the Month, and though I haven’t revisited Arroven again just yet, I did return to this universe for December’s Story of the Month as well. 👀

Magic, despite people's claim to the contrary, is beyond rare these days. No one really claims that it isn’t real, that it didn’t once run rampant with it’s existence. After all, it’s impossible to deny when people have things like the architecture of the North to reference. The towers built into their seaside cliffs, spiraling up like the serpents of old reaching for the sun? Without magic, without gravity spells, and an everlasting charm on those spells, thick enough to double as a coat of paint, the towers would have fallen into the sea by now, dashed against the dark stones jutting out from the deep green waters. Many people, though especially the elves, think that the towers will endure long after the cliffs have crumbled into the water. Floating relics, you’ve heard more than a few people murmur, wonder in their voices, wouldn’t that be something?

Even more common now, there are people the world over that claim they have a spark of magic left still, that they can feel the rhythms of the magical tide flooding back over the world.

She Wakes is written on street corners and thick posters, spray painted on the underside of the colossal Echo Bridge. No matter how often they have workers doing their best to clean the graffiti up, the giant letters are back in place a few days later.

Despite how much you’d like to believe them, as everyone dreams of the rumors, of magic returning, you’ve never put too much stock into the whispered words. Why would you? No matter how often you’ve spent watching wispy clouds streak by your window, no matter how often you’ve taken a moment to reflect on the thought, to nurse a seed of hope… Nothing has ever come of it.

It’s why you keep trying to ignore that heavy ache in the arch of your feet, or the way you keep noticing advertisements for Arroven.

History books and the elderly all say that this is how it starts when magic finally blooms in someone’s blood. There’s an itch. An ache. A constant irritant that starts in your extremities and wriggles into your veins, and then coincidences will start to pile up. Small things, like noticing whenever the clock strikes 11:11 on whatever clock you pass. Or maybe it’s having the luck to switch the radio station to your favorite song without fail, or—

“Stop it,” you mutter to yourself when you spot it. You breath puffs out into the chilly air, adding to the fog lingering in the streets. You kneel, brushing aside some of the fallen damask leaves, their velvety backs clinging to your touch even as you do your best to shake them off. Just barely hidden under their litter is a postcard. Without even glancing at it, you know what you’ll find on the back, but you’re drawn to pick it up anyway, turning it over. It depicts a sprawling city with green undertones, the word Arroven written in a sloping, beautiful script along the bottom of the image. The edges are creased, almost lovingly, and there’s a small puncture hole at the top left corner, as if someone had it pinned to a corkboard for no short amount of time. 

Until this moment, you haven’t picked up any of the advertisements for Arroven. The stories all say that you can ignore it, that the magic will go away and fade from you like an ebbing tide if you only will it hard enough, but… You don’t know that you really want it to leave. Those seeds have hope might not have fully sprouted, but their roots have run deep, snaking through your veins. You swallow past the dryness in your throat and turn the postcard over, wonder if you’re going to get an address, or if there are words of encouragement intended for the last owner.

The postcard is faintly yellowed at the edges, but it’s otherwise blank.

You wilt, disappointed, but you don’t throw it back down onto the stones. If you check the railway listings, you’re more than certain that you’ll find a one way trip to Arroven suddenly dirt cheap. The pathway that will lead you there is probably paved with strangely good fortune, more invisible hooks ready to find a secure hold in your heart. You might as well find out if there’s anything to these claims of magic. You have far too much hope shored up in your bones and pumping through your chest not to at least try. 

-

A month later, and you’re starting to believe that whatever magic that led you this far has all but fled. Of course, you’re more than content with where it’s left you, a word rattling around in the back of your brain and clamoring to spill from your lips: home. Arroven feels like home.

It’s not just the city though. It’s your place. It’s the stones that pave the streets and the people that fill them. It’s the smell of bakeries and the faint hint of exhaust. It’s the clean smell of paper and ink from the stationary shop you’d stumbled into on your first night in Arroven, and the proprietor’s barely-there smile. You’d made fast friends with her almost instantly, like it was fate.

Mora, despite her solemn stature, and the vast amount of spiraling tattoos disappearing under the neck of her cleanly pressed shirts, is beyond kind. She possesses a startling, sparkling wit that leaves a smile lingering on your lips whenever you think of her snappy little comments. She’d given you a job in her shop a few days after you’d first arrived, perking up as soon as you’d come back into her shop. She needed a cashier, so she could have more time to develop her own inks, and then a few days after that you literally stumbled onto a showing of a furnished apartment. It had fit all of your needs, and your shoes had sunk into the plush carpet of the bedroom, like a quiet voice in the place asking you to stay.

The ache in your feet had eased, that strange little irritant in the back of your mind fading with every passing day. You haven’t put too much thought into magic since then, as there hasn’t been a reason when you have a new job to keep you busy, and a city to explore on your days off. You love it here, the sea green patina on the copper statues, the swirling architecture that extends to every building in the city, no matter how large or small. Besides, you know if you go looking into magic again, at the message boards or if you go hunting down books, it’s likely that they’ll all say much the same thing: She Wakes, and her gift will blossom in you, but not Forever. She moves us like pawns, adjusting us Just So, no matter how small the slot She needs filled. 

You’ve read it all before, have heard debates shouted in the streets or argued about in the back corner of classrooms. Magic moves through people as it wills, and no amount of pleading will keep it in you unless you’re a mage, and even then, that takes years of study. If the magic that led you here only existed long enough for you to make your home? Then you’ll have to be satisfied with that.

And you are, until that ache in your feet starts up again.

Late one evening, as you’re locking the back door of Rumoura’s, it floods through you fast enough to steal your breath. There’s no voice, no heavy hand on your shoulder, just a fierce pain that wells, threatening to bring tears to your eyes, until you turn to the right. You blink, surprise at the sudden and complete lack of pain, and take a ragged breath as you pocket the key to the door. When you feel steady enough, when your lungs no longer ache, you turn to the right and start walking.It takes you about ten minutes to realize you’re headed towards the main park, the one with ancient ruins of a half finished serpent tower peppered throughout its boundaries. You’ve walked through once, one golden afternoon with Mora, and you’ve been meaning to come back sometime on your lunch break. The past few days have been busy though, with a flood of students coming back to Arroven, stocking up on both casual and serious supplies from Mora’s shop.

Besides, there’s always been time to explore at your leisure now that you’re living here. 

Two towering trees make a grand arch over the park entrance, and the slow swirl of damask leaves spiraling down from the branches make you laugh.

“Coincidence,” you murmur, a small smile curling your lips, and you walk into the park. The paths are well lit, even this late in the evening. This part of the city doesn’t boast about it’s lack of crime, but most people feel it. There always seems to be groups of people roaming: Elven tourists, hooking arms and laughing over cups of tea and coffee, Orcish artists and musicians, setting up on benches or street corners, busking for the simple sake of sharing their art with others. You wander through the park, expecting to simply take in the sights among the meandering attendees, but.. You haven’t seen anyone for the past few minutes. Your footsteps start to slow, wondering if you missed a sign somewhere and you have the nagging feeling that you just need to find someone.

Cautiously, you keep moving, the sudden bout of nervousness easing when you see someone up ahead. They’re sitting at the foot of one of the rather large blocks of toppled variscite, a dark hoodie hiding their face. Their shoulders are broad, and their clothes are a little more ragged than you see on people around here, but it gives off more of a well lived look than a dangerous one. They’re tapping the toes of their boots together, the tread of them worn smooth, and a low, masculine hum reaches your ears the closer you get. He stops as soon as you’re within speaking range though, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees. There’s a street lamp not too far behind him, and with the hood and the angle of the light, it casts most of his face in shadow. All you can spy is a pair of long, thorn-like ear gauges, curling out from the depths of his hood. They’re bigger around than a thimble and sharp looking from this far away. 

“Nice evening, hm?” You say in greeting, hoping that if he doesn’t want to speak, he’ll just bob his head and let you move along. You haven’t run into any trouble in Arroven yet, but even with that strange ache, you don’t know that you can see your good luck lasting forever.

“A lovely one,” he mumbles and he leans back, hands grabbing at his knees and squeezing like he’s the nervous one.

That thought makes you stop, your eyes focusing a bit more intensely on what you can see of his skin. At first glance, his knuckles are bruised and paint splattered, nails split and a little too long, skin rough in texture. You blink, realizing that his knuckles aren’t bruised, his skin just mirrors the strange patterns of the variscite he’s sitting on, ink black and sea green, and the rough texture to his skin has pointy, scalloped edges.

The noise he makes isn’t a sigh, not quite, but he turns his face away, as if he expects you to ignore him, or run, and his hood edges back, just a sliver. The arch of his nose is straight as an arrow, and his nostrils are thin things, slashing upwards. His face has so many angles that it’s hard to tear your gaze away. You wish you could see his eyes, but he has them closed, like he’s still bracing himself for a blow.

“Are you.. Are you alright?” You ask, because it seems like the thing to say, with how tense he is, with how he’s waiting.

His eyes flash open, reflective in the depths of his hood. His mouth curls into a frown when he turns to look at you again. His eyes are still the eerie glam of a reflected light. “You’re not frightened?”

“Are you?” You ask, ignoring the thundering of your own heart. You’ve seen Trolls before, and even a few half-elves or half-orcs of varying descent, with skin that just barely reminds you of his, but.. You’re willing to bet he isn’t any of those. 

“A bit?” He says, unsure, and the edge of a violet tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. “It’s been a few centuries since any of you have made yourself so at home here that you stumbled across me.” He hunches his shoulders, looking away from you for the breadth of a second, before he can’t help himself. His eyes flick back to you, rove over you from head to toe, almost greedily. “You felt a call then, an itch?”

“An ache,” you correct, staring at him with wide eyes. Centuries? The long lived races don’t often mention the time they have over others. It’s rude at the best of times, and most of them are terrible sticklers for manners. 

“At home here, you said?” You ask, knowing that something about him seems terribly familiar. 

Your question makes him pause, brow lifting before he finally pushes himself to his feet. He unfolds, all long, heavy limbs, but doesn’t move from his spot on the variscite. “M-.. Arroven. You do think of the city as home?” He breathes in, hesitantly lifting his chin. “Not to be rude,” he says, a little awkwardly, “but you smell like Arroven.”

All at once, the old poem flickers back into your mind, the one about hearts and desires and winter. The oldest folktales of the first cities, those built around the serpent towers, all seemed to carry the poem with them. It was both a warning and a blessing to those that wished to stay. You’d have to hunt down the entirety of it, but the ending couplet?  

The city promises, you’ll be most adored So can you, will you, join the hoard?

You bite down fiercely on the desire to blurt out dragon, but he must sense it, might even see the aborted twist of your lips. 

“..you’ve figured it out, then?” He asks, and when his shoulders droop, you spy the barest edge of a wing, tucked in close to his back. “If being in my immediate vicinity is a problem, I quite understand, but please stay in the city. You-” He blows out a breath, large hands fussing about with his hoodie pocket. Everything about him reads awkward, almost shy. “You’re safe here, I promise.” He breathes in again, like he can’t resist, eyes falling closed when his violet tongue appears, there and gone before you can blink. “You belong,” he murmurs and tangles his fingers in the material of his hoodie, like he would reach out if he didn’t stop himself.

Inexplicably, you wonder if Mora knows about the city patron. If you should waltz into the shop tomorrow and announce: I’ve officially been welcomed to the hoard.  ...Sort of. Before you lose your nerve, before you can bite your tongue, you ask. “An official welcome involves more drinks though, doesn’t it?”

-Arroven, the dragon, the founder of the city, is sitting across the table from you, slouching in a barstool that has a difficult time encompassing his enormous body. Despite his height, and the way his hood shadows his face in a frankly ominous way, no one is paying him any attention. One of the bartender’s had slid a drink list your way as soon as you’d claimed the seats, but she hadn’t even glanced at Arroven. In fact, you think her eyes might have skipped right over his seat. It’s a little disconcerting, seeing as he’d claimed that Wink was one of the best bars around, but if they ignore him, if they can’t see him?

“What’ll it be?” A different bartender asks, a tall elf, with his hair plaited back in a complicated braid. He has pleasant features, though he looks a little flustered, a lock or two of dark hair escaping his braid. You think he might be on the newer end when he fumbles a bit with the card you slide his way, olive skin flushing when his fingers nearly touch yours.  

“Uh, the special,” you finally decide, expecting him to turn to Arroven so he can order as well. Your jaw drops when he whirls, not even bothering. “Ar- hey, wait!” 

The elf turns back, smiling vaguely, looking even more tense now that he can’t leave straight off, but he doesn’t seem to see Arroven when you gesture towards him. His gaze zips right through the neckline of Arroven's hoodie, straight on through to the next customer. 

Perturbed, you lean in close to Arroven, heart skipping a beat due to his proximity. He smells faintly of musty books, and stone, cooling in the early evening after baking in the sunshine of a warm day. "Didn’t you want something?” You force yourself to ask, unwilling to let the elf leave without at least checking with him first. He doesn’t have to get anything, but you’d hoped he would, if only so you can spend a while longer in his company. Maybe the flirtatious tone you’d struck had made him uncomfortable?

For a moment Arroven hunches further into his sweatshirt, and you think your fears might hold weight. You are a little close, and you still don’t know each other terribly well yet. You straighten, hoping you don’t look as embarrassed as you feel and Arroven heaves out a sigh. He finally tugs back his hood, though the elf behind the bar doesn’t even blink. “Just a.. a Beetle Wing," he mutters, large, sharp teeth catching the light. The elf nods, though his gaze is still on you when Arroven speaks, and turns away to go make the drinks. 

Without the darkness of night, without his hood shadowing his face, you see that his eyes aren’t permanently reflective. In the dim lights of the bar, they’re a lovely shade of blue-green that matches well with his skin. What you thought were ear gauges were actually his horns, thick and curving, and trailing after the clean arch of his jaw. His ears are heavy with plugs though, and they clink against his horns when he turns, noticing that you’re staring. The scent of hot stone grows stronger when you smile at him, and then he huffs, looking away and running a hand through his already tousled, short dark hair. You catch sight of scales on his scalp and then blink. It’s not hair on his head, it’s feathers. His eyebrows are much the same, in miniature. Fine, thin feathers, as ink dark as the scalloped edges of his scales. 

“So,” you tease, hoping your questions won’t come off as prying. “Can the rest of the people in here see you at all? You said that it’d been a while since anyone had felt at home enough here to stumble across you, but.. I don’t know exactly if that means Magicis is at work, or something else.”

Arroven breathes in, glancing up at the filigreed round sign hanging over the bar. There’s a single neon eye in the middle, opening and closing on loop under the word WINK. Even with the noise of people talking, and the music coming steadily from the small corner of a dance floor, you can still hear the faint buzz and click of the neon switching over. “Not many,” he finally confesses. “If the proprietor were here, she would see me, but she’s been here for a.. For a while.” She’s one of the long lived races then. Arroven turns, taking a quick look over the other patrons, tense, as if he expects one of them to approach. “The couple near the dance floor there,” he finally says, pointing out two women leaning into each other, stealing sips of each other’s drinks. “The orcish fellow on his phone. They can see me, though I doubt they’ll realize who I am. Just living here doesn’t make someone part of the hoard, though it’s always a step in the right direction.” For a second, he looks like he might let the subject drop, but then he cringes, glancing at your eyes before he looks away. “I don’t- I don’t steal from the people living here, whether they’re part of my hoard or not, even if they don’t realize I’m around. Even if they can’t see me.”

That’s reassuring, though you hadn’t planned on diving into that topic.

“What then,” you ask, leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, and your elbow on the bar, “makes someone part of your hoard?” 

Arroven’s rough looking scales don’t shine, but the neon light over the both of you shifts again from blue, to pink, and back. It was already hard for you to take your eyes off of him, knowing who he is, attracted to the nervous quirk of his lips, but now? The magic that you’ve only ever felt the after effects of, the strange aches and coincidences, it feels like more in this moment. More than a soft nudge in the correct direction. Arroven is sitting at your side, winking neon sign a spotlight over both your heads.

Hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, Arroven lifts his hand, reaching out, and taps once, softly, against your sternum. “It sounds esoteric, but the only explanation I have is that all of you feels like you should be here. From the way you smell, to the echoes of your voice or your footsteps along the pavement...” Arroven swallows, and then inhales, letting his hand fall away from your chest as his eyes close. He doesn’t pull his hand back completely though, just lets his hand hover over your thigh. “It’s always the desires of the heart that bring my hoard home,” he murmurs and starts to sway towards you.

There’s a soft clink on the bar, your drinks being set carefully in front of you and Arroven. When you look, the bartender still hasn’t noticed the city patron, the dragon, but the drink is still clearly set aside for him. Your card is placed very quickly next to your glass, the elf flashing you a much more jovial smile than earlier. 

“Your drink has been taken care of,” he explains, but doesn’t stay behind to point out who might have bought them. When you look, Arroven is sitting straight up in his seat, and his guilty expression is answer enough.

“I was supposed to be welcoming you to the city,” he murmurs, turning in his stool so he can take hold of his glass. The liquid inside is iridescent, shifting from what looks like violet, to a strange umber. You’re willing to bet that it’s more blue and green, but the neon light isn’t doing it too many favors. Arroven lifts his cup, patiently waiting for you to do the same and then quietly toasts your arrival. The clink of the glasses rings in your ears with the clarity of a bell, echoes lasting far longer than the noise itself.

“Goodness,” you say, coughing when you finish your swallow. Your drink is a little stronger than you thought it would be, heat already spiralling down into your chest and filling your belly. “So, uh, the city blessings seem to be true, I take it?” You don’t look at him as you speak, afraid he’ll cringe away from the mention of them.

“Blessings?” Arroven asks, and then you have to search up the poem. He sounds like he doesn't know, but they're supposed to be as old as the cities. Or near as.

“Sometimes they vary, from city to city. But most of the time they have almost the same structure. The same meaning,” you explain, pulling up the poem on your phone. “Hoarding hearts, keeping people safe in winter. The, uh-” You turn it his way, but he doesn’t take the phone from you, just reads the words out of the palm of your hand, brows raised by the time he gets to the end.

“‘Sinking talons into your thighs?’” Arroven’s slit pupils grow wide, nearly drowning his iris in darkness. He straightens, taking another hasty gulp of his drink. He laughs when he’s finished, nerves finally beginning to ease. “That’s how they’re translating it these days?” He asks, but you notice his eyes lingering on your hands, drifting down to your knees and the way you’re sitting. 

You pass a good portion of the evening, teetering back and forth with conversation about the city now, and how it was when Arroven had first settled. For all that he’s wearing modern clothes and walking on two feet, you can see him in a larger, more draconic figure, delving into the variscite mines and overseeing the people that had decided to settle under his watch.  

He’s just as enthralled with your stories though, hanging onto your every word, even though he’s still clearly a little anxious. He abandons his hunched and wary demeanor as soon as you start talking about the magic though. All the little aches and nudges and postcards that had led a clear path to his city. To him.

You insist on buying the next round when he makes to wave down the bartender, who is still completely oblivious to his presence, but Arroven stops you with a hand on your wrist. 

"Another time," he says, just loud enough for you to hear. "A welcome isn't a single round, is it?" He asks, a tentative smile revealing a small glimpse of those sharp teeth.

You could argue. You have the feeling that he would let it go if you pushed, but the smile sways you. It's the first time he's spoken without lowering his eyes mid sentence. You accept the drink, and try not to stare when his smile grows, shy and small and all the more endearing for it.

You both pretend not to notice each other grinning after that.

It’s just past 1 AM by the time the both of you leave the bar, only slightly unsteady after a few drinks and a few plates of bar food. Warmth floods you when Arroven’s hand finds your elbow, just barely keeping you from stumbling off the edge of the sidewalk and into the street. All it takes is a single stroke of his thumb over your arm for you to throw aside any worries you might have about flirting. 

He's reciprocated, in quiet ways, for the last hour or so. He’s leaned into you whenever you lowered your voice, had let his eyes linger on your hands and thighs after you brought up the poem.. The worst thing he can do is say no.

“Come to my place?” You blurt and Arroven stutters, hand spasming in his grip on your arm. For a heart wrenching moment, you think he might turn you down, but he finally bobs his head, gauges clicking against his horns with the motion. “...You said you’d been out of the loop with the people living here,” you start, mouth dry, wondering if he knows what you’re trying to ask, but still a little too sober to spell it out. “I’m asking, I’m not just asking you to come visit. I-” 

Arroven stops your worried speech with a slightly awkward smile. “I know what you’re getting at,” he finally says with a gentle huff of a laugh, hand sliding down your arm until he can twine his fingers about yours. His breath hitches, and for a moment you think he might stop, might pull away. “I- I would love to,” he says quietly, and squeezes until his fingernails gently prick the back of your hand.

Wordless with triumph, you flash another smile his way, heart pounding as you keep hold of his hand, ventral scales dry, but slick against your palm.

“The walk back to my place is a bit of a long one from here,” you confess, glancing at the handful of cabs loitering along the street. “Seeing as you got the drinks, I can—” You nearly trip over your own feet when Arroven tugs you back, keeping you from approaching any of the cabs. 

“I don’t.. Fit very well,” he says, apologetically. “If you would rather take one, I can, but if you aren’t opposed..” Arroven’s wings, still tucked in flat along his back, quirk and stretch, spreading wide enough that he nearly clips another leaving bar patron in the face. They don’t move, don’t see him, but they blink, as if a gust of wind just hit them, and shield their eyes until they’re well past you and Arroven.

His statement leaves you staring, jaw beginning to grow slack. “Are you saying you can fly us back to my place?” Your eyes trace his wings again, the fragile veins spider webbing across the membranes. It’s not that you thought they were ornamental, but it’s one thing to see them, and another to know you’ll get to witness their use first hand. 

Arroven’s shoulders start to hunch, but his eyes flick down to your hand, fingers still curled around his. He smiles instead. “Yes?” 

You glance at the cabs, and then back to Arroven’s tall figure and broad shoulders. As much as you’d like being pressed up against him, trapped in the backseat of an uncomfortable cab isn’t quite what you’d pictured, and he’s already nervous enough. That settles things. You nod, just the once and lift your chin to meet his eyes. “Flying it is then! We can’t have you getting stuck in one of those, can we?”

While Arroven walks you through how he’s going to pick you up, how he’s going to hold onto you, some of the people on the sidewalk start to watch you. You’re nodding readily at what they assume to be empty air. You spare a second to wonder if they’ll see you vanish, or if they’ll be able to see the equivalent of a magical wind carrying you away. That would cause quite a stir, wouldn't it? You forget to ask Arroven about it though when he holds out his arm, waiting patiently for you to step closer, fingers gentle in their continued grip on your hand. 

He’s still giving you the chance to turn away. 

You take a breath, thinking back to the nerves you’d felt, packing up a bag and deciding to visit somewhere based on coincidences and the hearsay of magic. You think of Mora, and the apartment that feels more like home to you than nearly anything else ever has. The way everything fits here, every piece of the city you've set foot in branded on your brain, clearer than any map. You step close, eagerly letting Arroven curl his arm around your back and then lift you up in a bridal carry. His forearms and biceps tense, bracing you as he prepares, and then the snap of his wings flaring open makes your heart jump before he leaps. His wings catch a sudden breeze swooping into the street, allowing it to lift the both of you well clear of the ground before he starts to flap. The slight dip in elevation as he finds his rhythm makes you clutch a little tighter, but Arroven doesn’t complain. In fact, when you glance at him, he seems to be holding back a smug little smile.  

It’s cold when he finally crests over the top of the nearest buildings. Between the chill, and the fast growing height between you and the ground, you have no issues absolutely clinging to Arroven’s neck. You don't feel like you're going to fall, but it's still safer than sitting meekly in his arms, isn't it? You try to twist your head about to see everything below you, but another rush of cold wind makes you squint. It takes a moment before you realize Arroven isn't moving though, he's simply keeping the both of you suspended in midair.

“Your address?” Arroven asks as soon as you start to frown, his voice rumbling against your ear.

“Ah.” You give it to him, laughing when you meet his still-shy gaze. “I suppose that’s a little important.”

While the walk would have left you both a little tired, the flight is a fairly short one. You have just enough time to relish all the places you’re pressed in close, to enjoy what little warmth you’ve managed to keep with the wind seeping through your clothes, when Arroven lands in front of your quiet building. There are no witnesses but the dim streetlights, the sound of his flapping wings muffled by the mist beginning to roll through the city. Arroven lowers you almost reluctantly, fingers slow to uncurl so you can step down onto the pavement. He takes a step back as soon as you do, like he needs the space between you to think.

“Still up for coming inside?” You ask, giving him the same chance he’d given you earlier. You jerk a thumb at the locked door, searching for your keys with your other hand. 

Arroven’s head jerks forward almost too fast, the dark feathers on his skull prickling upwards. His wings snap closed, tight against his back again as soon as you unlock your door. It’s only mildly nerve wracking, having him follow you up to your place, and you think it might be because of how nervous he’s acting. He flinches away from the wall when he barely brushes it, almost tripping over his own boots as he goes up the stairs. He’s been shy from the get-go, but this-

“Arroven,” you murmur, turning to look up at him, hand pausing on your door handle. “Is something wrong?”

He breathes out, turning his head so the plugs in his earlobes clack against his horns, blue-green eyes roving over the hall. “No,” he says slowly, forcing himself to stop hunching into his hoodie, to take his wringing hangs out of the front pocket. “I’ve just, it’s just that I keep-” He stays where he is, brow furrowing for all of five seconds before he’s huffing and stepping into your space. When Arroven leans down, his pupils are needle thin, that sunshine warm smell suffusing the air. He was summoning up courage, you realize, just in time to let your eyes fall closed as he cradles your jaw with both hands. They dwarf your human face, his fingertips easily reaching all the way to the back of your neck, but his touch may well be the softest thing you’ve ever known. His kiss is more the brush of his mouth over the shape of yours, a slip of a taste when his tongue follows the curve of your lower lip. He hums, softly, but when you kiss him back? When your tongue touches his and you try to stand on your tip-toes to deepen things, when you stumble a step closer—Arroven’s groan is gratifying. Achingly slowly, he draws his hands down the side of your neck, leaving you free to control the pace of the kiss. His thumbs trace your collarbone, slow, deep circles that make you wish you weren’t standing out here, fully clothed and too warm.

You pull away, licking your lips and glancing down the hall. There’s no one there, despite your pulse loud in your ears and your breath heaving, surely loud enough to wake even those in the very depths of sleep. Arroven’s breath hitches, and for a moment he sways, ready to chase you for another kiss. “Wait, wait,” you say softly, trying not to smile too wide when his eyes flicker open, dark pupils growing larger. He starts to straighten, embarrassment lifting his shoulders. “Maybe we should get in my house first?” You rush to say, not wanting to potentially scar one of your neighbors, but not wanting him to rush away either.

His mouth opens on reflex, and then closes, slipping into a gentle smile. “Yes,” he says, and then you have to swallow, watching his eyes slide down to your hands and then further down to your knees.  

You get your door open before he touches you again, but you’re only a few steps inside when Arroven reaches for you. He strokes the back of his knuckles down your forearm, fingertips only barely grazing your hips. “I’ve missed this,” he whispers, one of his fingers catching two of yours. “Touching,” he explains, the edge of his thumbnail stroking over your wrist and the base of your thumb and back. “Being close to, well…” He breathes in when you step into him, and grows as still as a statue when you balance against him, reaching around his middle to swing the front door shut. This close, Arroven still smells of sunshine, but there’s a sweeter, crisper undertone that makes you want to close your eyes to savor it, to breathe it in. He’s nearly vibrating with you pressed close though, hands hovering somewhere over the middle of your back, trying to keep himself still. He’s waiting for you to give him the go ahead, still caught up in his nerves... Or maybe just manners?

You grin, gently pushing yourself back a step before you smooth out your expression. “Part of your hoard?” You wonder aloud, but then you can’t keep yourself straight faced any longer, wanting him to recognize the words for the gentle teasing they are. You smile. “How about you touch me then?”

Arroven huffs, pleased, and then you quickly discover how needy he can be. He kisses you all the way down the hall, his wings nearly catching on picture frames, hands trembling in their stroking over your back. He keeps pausing at the top of your hips, like he wants to let his hands drift lower, but focuses on his mouth instead, mouth and teeth moving from your lips, to your jaw and down to your neck. You don’t think he’s willing to risk going further though, knowing that it would likely end up with both of you unbalanced and on the floor instead of the bed. 

“Distracted?” You ask, reaching blindly around your doorframe, searching for the lightswitch as Arroven’s tongue flickers over the pulse on the left side of your neck. Your own breathing stutters for a moment, heat building in your veins. “You keep-”

Arroven’s breath puffs over the damp patch he’s left on your skin as he lifts his head, violet tongue sliding along the sharp points of his teeth. “Hardly,” Arroven interrupts, and his wings tense when you hook your fingers into the neck of his hoodie, drawing him further into the room. Your fingers find the lightswitch, the soft ring of the bulb lighting strangely loud in the room. “You’re all I can see. All I can focus on. ..am I missing something? Cues?” He asks, voice gone lower when you give his hoodie a fierce tug. He follows, all too willingly, fingers flexing around your hips. 

“Hardly,” you say back, teasing as you back up towards the bed. You pull when you lean back, expecting him to let you fall, to fall with you, but his wings flare again. He catches himself on the blankets, hands to either side of your body, the blue-green of his eyes swallowed by his pupils as he takes the sight of you in. “Still good?” You ask after a moment, because he’s staring, because he hasn’t moved a muscle. 

“Tell me,” Arroven blurts, arms tensing as his fingers twist into the blankets. “Tell me what to do,” he pleads, gaze catching on every sliver of bared skin he can find. “I’m.. finding it a little difficult to think. All I want to do is make you happy, make you want to-” He stops, feathered brows drawing together as he considers his words.

You arch an eyebrow, your hands stilling just shy of his chest. The way he’d hesitated, his flighty touches? they all make a bit more sense now. He’d asked you to stay in the city, had mentioned your belonging here. If you wanted to leave, if you insisted on stopping, Arroven wouldn’t keep you. But he wants you to stay here.

  “Little to no thinking,” you muse, unable to keep from smiling as he hangs onto your every word. “Undress me,” you finally decide, and his nostrils flare before he sets to work. He’s terribly careful, every brush of his scaled knuckles whisper-soft and cool against your skin, but his breathing is ragged by the time he’s finished and your heart has sped in response. You’re tempted to make him undress himself too. In fact, he would probably do just as you asked, but you’re too impatient to get your hands back on him. “Hoodie off,” you declare, half amazed that he’s obeying your whims, “and lay down on the bed.”

Arroven listens immediately, tucking his wings in close before he’s pulling off the hoodie, careful around the curl of his horns and the arch of his wings. He isn’t wearing a shirt, but with his wings, you understand why. Most of those with wings don’t favor mass produced clothes or modern fashion. He’s on the bed before you can finish pushing yourself back up, jeans low on his hips, pale belly and chest all the brighter compared to the black and teal pattern of his scales. His legs spread reflexively when you stand, jeans growing taut when you reach for him. Your hands are steady, even if your pulse isn’t, but Arroven doesn’t seem to care. He looks blissed out from this much touch alone, jaw gone slack, eyelids heavy as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He exhales when you pull at his jeans, eyes zeroed in on your face.

He’s thicker than he is long, and as pale as his abdomen, save for a violet tinge that makes you think of his tongue. Nestled as he is in the ‘v’ of his unzipped jeans, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from stroking him straight away, or even leaning down to-

“Maybe I can think,” Arroven says hoarsely. He lifts one of his hands, gentleman-like, offering it to you palm up. “Let me?” He asks, though you’re not entirely sure what he wants you to let him do.

Mannerly, you can’t help but think, lips twitching as you place your hand in his. The older races are, generally. It’s something to fall back on if they’re nervous or unsure. Not that most of them would ever admit to it.

“Are you thinking I should leave your boots on?” You get one knee on the bed before you pause, glancing back at his legs still hanging over the edge.

Arroven hums, but his grip on your fingers tightens for a second, not wanting to let go. “I’ll worry about those later,” he says, and then inhales sharply when you straddle his lap, cock pulsing as you settle against him. If he wants to let his jeans tangle around his boots, you’re not going to complain. It’s a bit of a thrill, knowing that he’s too impatient to fuss with them.

“Boots on, then. Now, what am I supposed to let you do?” You lean forward, drawing an aimless, spiraling pattern from his abdomen up to his ribcage. He’s much warmer now, with you astride his thighs and his wings trapped beneath him on the bed. It looks uncomfortable, but he hasn’t mentioned them once.

Hesitant, Arroven’s hold on you loosens, and then his hand drops to your thigh, eyebrows furrowing when he finally speaks. “Sit on my face?”

The brevity of it, the tone of uncertainty, makes your mouth twitch. “Jumping right in there, aren’t we? And here I thought you were kind of shy.”

“I am!” Arroven blurts and then covers his face with one hand, laughing quietly at himself. “I am,” he says, a bit more composed when he lets his hand fall away. “Though shyness has hardly ever been a factor in my favor. What is it humans say? Better to rip off the bandage?”

You crawl halfway up his body, smiling wider when he forgets to breathe. “Had to get the anxiety out of the way?” You brush a kiss over his chin, eyes catching on the curl of his horns. He’s moved so carefully that you’ve yet to feel the sharp points of them catching your skin, but if you sit on his face… You ignore Arroven’s disappointed sigh as you turn away to stroke the pad of your thumb over his right horn, wondering whether he has any feeling in them. They’re as ink dark as some of his scales and twisted in a lovely spiral that perfectly circles his pointed, gauged ears. Arroven isn’t reacting like he has sensation in them, though he reacts to every other little touch of you against his scales. “You’re going to have to help me balance,” you confess, sitting back against his middle. “Because even though they aren’t terribly sharp, I rather think I’ll be risking my thighs. Don’t you?”

Arroven stares, blinking, and then he looks horrified, which makes you wonder how long it’s been since he’s been close to a human, if ever. 

“I’m not against this,” you add, grinning, “just to be clear.”

For a moment, all he says in response is a strangled sounding “Ah,” before he blinks again, glancing up at the ceiling. “I can... I will help. I’ll be careful. More than careful.”

It takes a few moments, and some adjustment, before you’re finally able to settle over his face. Your heart starts to pound a little faster when Arroven opens his mouth, those dagger-like teeth flashing in the dim light. His hands are strong though, curling around your thigh and bracing your hip. He’s too tall for you to do more than help balance against his chest, though you can see that he’s still wonderfully hard, and his cock is starting to leak. You’d love nothing more than to take him in hand, to taste him, but then Arroven nips your inner thigh, and you stop paying attention to his cock and start focusing on sensation. Your fingers curl at the first hot swipe of his tongue, pressing a little hard into the ventral scales over his chest, and the next slow lick has your eyes falling closed. 

It’s not easy to stay steady, to keep your arms and legs from quivering the longer he licks and slurps. Arroven sucks small kisses over your thighs and the left cheek of your ass, his teeth only ever the barest pressure on your skin. His horns graze you, but he’s true to his word in keeping you balanced. The texture of them against your skin is just something more to feel, to enjoy as he tilts his head this way and that. Pleasure builds, faster by far than the magic that built in your veins, that left you aching with the need to come to the city. If that ache had been anything close to what you’re feeling now, warm, and slick, with the heady pressure of Arroven’s fingers on your skin, you would have picked up on the breadcrumb trail a lot sooner.

“You’re go- going to push me over the edge,” you warn with a gasp, legs starting to tremble. He moves you in response, starts to rock your hips so all he has to do is stick out his tongue, but your hands are shaking now too, cluing him into your urgency. Arroven shakes his head from side to side, a little wild, the plugs in his earlobes clattering against his horns with every shift. You bite down on your lower lip, orgasm rolling swiftly over you and nearly choke on the curse that wants to leave your mouth. He keeps you there, aching and weak, until you pat awkwardly at his chest, releasing you reluctantly with one last obscene noise of satisfaction. 

You sit next to him, still a little unsteady and grin down at his pleased, messy face. “Now, unless you have any other lovely thoughts to share - your turn?”  

His rough sounding “Please,” has your libido jumping back into overdrive, but it’s safety that has you slipping off the bed to dig out a bottle of lube from your things. He’s half pushed himself back up when you come back to the bed, resting on his elbows, fingers twisted gently into the blankets. His wings are partially stretched out now too, one of them reaching all the way to the end of your bed. 

“Are your wings alright?” You ask, wondering if you should throw away the idea of climbing back into his lap, lube already pooling in the palm of your hand.  

Arroven smiles again though, waving away your worry. “Tense,” he offers, as explanation. “I was more focused on you, but they’re good. I promise.” His cock bobs as you approach, and then he lays back down, irises vanishing into the ether of his pupils. 

“If you promise, I suppose I’ll let it go.” You close the lube, only a bit ungracefully, and toss it to the side, climbing back onto the bed and straddling his thighs.

  Your first wet squeeze of his cock has him whimpering, your hand barely fitting around him at his thinnest point. When you stroke, he bucks nearly unseating you until he claps his hands onto your thighs, muttering a hasty apology. Despite being tempted to laugh, you narrow your eyes, squeezing him just a little harder. “You don’t have to be still, but move a little slower for now, hm?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say, and then his jaw goes slack when you press him against you. “Oh,” he breathes, nails pricking your skin as you hold him in place. You rub yourself against his cock, up and back down, a slow undulation that makes you tense, still sensitive from your earlier orgasm. 

And then you straighten, pressing the head of his cock into you. The first slow stretch of him inside you echoes the steady ache of magic, has your breath rushing from your lungs in a gasp. “Fuck,” you breathe and then glance at Arroven’s face. His head is tilted back, mouth open to reveal all of those sharp teeth, and his eyes are closed tight. You think he might be keeping himself from looking at you, might be trying to stem the urge to buck again, to move at all. You tilt your hips and press yourself down though, wiggling, and then Arroven is cursing. You don’t recognize the language, but you understand the sentiment behind it, the pleading tone that softens the edges of the words. It’s hard to concentrate, to keep yourself from getting distracted when all you want to do is sink down every inch of him and then just lay on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “Too much?” You manage to ask, but all Arroven does is shake his head and then carefully ease his grip on your thighs, stroking down to your knees and back up. Your legs, among other things, are definitely going to ache after this.

You ride Arroven until he’s a shaking, breathless mess, until he can’t help but tense his thighs every time he bottoms out, and you can barely stay up. You reach up, fingers just barely brushing his chin to make him pay attention. “Fuck me,” you command and his wings stretch to either side with force. You nearly scream when he starts fucking into you with purpose, and as lovely as your neighbors have been, you have the feeling they’re going to complain at some point. Every thrust has you tightening up on reflex, still shaky from your earlier orgasm, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright. A few moments later and Arroven arches as he comes inside you, clutching tightly to you until he’s finished, breath deep and rasping. You don’t wait. Carefully you flop down next to him, smiling tiredly against the blankets. You’re not sure your legs will carry you for the next hour or so, but it’s hardly something to complain about. 

“Do you give all newcomers to the hoard such a.. Vigorous welcome?” You ask, laughing, your voice rough, not really expecting him to answer. Even though he’s clearly a little more comfortable, even though he’s been clinging to your skin and he looks wrecked by all the activity. Arroven nearly chokes.

“No,” he says immediately. “Moments like this,” he murmurs, reaching out for you, ventral scales on his palm smooth over the apple of your cheek, “moments like this are few and far between.” There’s a low rumble of noise from him when you roll close to brush another kiss over his lips, eyes fluttering closed. It’s all you can do not to laugh again, not to quote the poem at him or interrupt the soft moment. It still sits in the back of your mind though, sweet and lilting.

the city is hoarding hearts

it draws them in, with coin, with art

reflects their dreams on mirrored glass

sings siren songs to catch them fast

the lights?

they gleam, they glitter, bright

it steals a piece, with every sight

roots get worn

they split, they splinter

'but i'll keep you warm, in the depth of winter'

the city whispers, it cajoles, it cries

it'll sink it's talons into your thighs

it tears, it scrapes, it batters the unwary

but oh, the love it gifts, to those who tarry

the city promises, you'll be most adored

so can you, will you, join the hoard?

[izzyfandoms]

Logince - Rescue

GENERAL TAGLIST: @quillfics42 @aj-draws @phantomofthesanderssides @phlying-squirrel @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @because-were-fam-ily @imtryingthisout @a-creepycookie @littlestr @spooky-scary-virgil @fuyel @mimsidoodles @soupgremlin @aroaceagenderfluid @birdsbookshiddeninrealbirdsskin @quirkalurk @gingers-trashy-stuff @iinyxtello @justaqueercactus @melodiread @mrbubbajones @pun-master-logan @gayturtlez @k1ngtok1 @yourneighborhooddisaster @alexxander-the-gay @full-of-roman-angst-trash @selfcarejanus

Masterpost

Roman sighed, resting his elbow on the window sill and his chin in his hand. With his other hand, he traced shapes onto the flat surface, as he looked out of the window at nothing in particular.

He was bored. And more than just bored, he was lonely.

The only person he ever saw anymore was the witch who had captured him, and she spent most of her time as the dragon that guarded his tower. Right now, she was curled up around its base. She looked like she was sleeping - as she did most of the time while she guarded him - but that did not make her look much less menacing, with giant claws and blade-sharp teeth and smoke coming out of her nostrils with every breath.

Roman let out another frustrated sigh, tipping his head back up to look at the ceiling of his tower.

Oh, gods above, when was he going to be rescued? And why did he have to wait to be rescued?

That stupid witch and that stupid spell that meant he could not leave the tower. Roman couldn't even rescue himself! That was the worst part.

Roman huffed, and then turned back to the window. He had nothing else to do - other than reread the books that he had read a million times - so all he could do was watch the forest.

The trees were tall, as they always were. The dragon was red and covered with scales, as she always was. There was someone on a horse approaching the tower, as there always was.

Wait. Wait.

There was someone on a horse approaching the tower?

Roman straightened up, his eyes wide. He began to lean through the window, but his head hit the magical barrier that blocked him from escaping. Roman let out a pained hiss, clutching at his head with his eyes closed for a few moments. Then, he hesitantly opened them again - ignoring the pain - and peered out of the window again, careful to stay just far enough away from the barrier to avoid being hurt again.

The person on the horse approached the tower at a quick pace, before slowing down once he was not far from the dragon. He then stopped and hopped off of the horse.

Roman held his breath, watching as the person slowly began to approach the slumbering dragon. Thankfully, the dragon witch seemed to be a deep sleeper.

The person - Roman's saviour - continued to approach the dragon at a slow pace. Roman could not see the specifics of what he was doing at the distance, but he still watched him, eyes wide.

Was he about to be rescued? Or was he about to watch someone be gobbled up by the dragon witch?

At least he was far enough away that, if the latter happened, Roman wouldn't have to witness the gore.

Once the person was close enough to the dragon, he stopped, doing something that Roman could not see. Roman watched for some time, holding his breath, before he saw something that he did not understand.

The person began to... float?

Roman stared, stunned, as the person began to float upwards, closer and closer to him. Soon, he could tell that he was wearing simple, dark blue clothes. Then, he could tell that he had a sheathed sword, a bag over his shoulder and square glasses.

And then, he stopped just outside Roman's large tower window, and Roman could finally see that his saviour was handsome.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, Roman wide-eyed and his saviour with a serious expression on his face.

"Prince Roman," his saviour finally said. "My name is Logan, and I am here to rescue you."

Roman stared at him for a little longer, still stunned.

This was real. This was really happening. He was finally being rescued.

And his saviour was a very handsome man. That was perhaps not the most important part, but Roman still took note of it.

"Wow," Roman breathed. "Thank you."

Logan held out his hand, and Roman began to reach for it, before he remembered the barrier that still blocked him from escaping. He pulled his hand back.

"There's a barrier," Roman said. "It's tied to my blood, I can't get through."

Logan pulled his hand back, reaching into his bag.

"I expected this," he said.

Roman leant forward just slightly - not quite far enough that he would hit the barrier - looking into Logan's bag. Inside it there were numerous bottles filled with colourful liquids.

"What, did you kill a witch and steal their potions, or something?" Roman asked.

"No, I am a witch."

Roman froze in place.

A witch. Another witch? Was Logan rescuing him simply to take him to another tower and hold him hostage there?

Roman took a hesitant step back.

"Uh, you know what, I'm- uh, I'm fine. I'm perfectly content in this tower. You can, um... you can leave."

Logan looked up from his bag, his hand hesitating, halfway through pulling out a small bottle of golden liquid. He tilted his head, giving Roman a bewildered look.

"You don't want to be rescued?"

Roman hesitated.

"I... you do not need to rescue me. That's fine."

Logan stared at him for a little longer.

"If you are concerned about the dragon witch awakening, I put her under a sleeping spell. She shall not wake up for at least another hour."

Roman paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Logan's brow then creased.

"Are you concerned because I am a witch?"

"Uh..."

Logan paused, before placing the bottle back into his bag and straightening up.

"I assure you, Prince Roman, I am only here to rescue you. I mean you no harm."

"How do I know that that is true?" Roman said, taking a step back. "A witch is the reason why I am trapped in this horrible place! I cannot trust another. What if you simply take me to another tower?"

Logan seemed to think about Roman's question for a few moments.

"I do not know how to prove to you that I mean you no harm. But I do know this, I am your best chance of escaping this tower. You cannot spend the rest of your life stuck in here. And if taking the risk of trusting me is what it takes for you to escape this place, them I would say that that is worth it." He paused. "Please, allow me to rescue you, Prince Roman. Allow me to take you back to your home."

Roman stared at him for a little longer.

Should he trust this... witch? Should he risk getting captured, when it meant he had the possibility of finally going home?

He didn't want to trust a witch. But... well, there was something inside of him that wanted to trust Logan.

Roman let out a sigh.

"Okay. I... am going to trust you. But if you betray me, you will be sorry."

Roman wasn't entirely sure what he would do if Logan betrayed him - there was little he could do against the magic of a witch, as he had realised when the dragon witch had first captured him - but he certainly wouldn't go quietly.

Logan nodded. "Understood." Then, he turned back to his bag and pulled the bottle of golden liquid back out. He held it out to Roman. "Drink this."

Roman hesitantly took the bottle, looking it over and watching it shine. He then gave Logan a suspicious look.

"What is this?"

"It will temporarily change your body into mine. This will allow you to pass through the barrier."

Roman looked between Logan and the little bottle in his hand, before he let out a sigh. He lifted it to his lips and then drank the whole thing in one go. It tasted strangely sweet - perhaps a little too sweet, but it wasn't particularly unpleasant, and it was far better than the plain food the dragon witch fed him.

He paused, looking at the bottle for a second, before he turned back to Logan.

"I don't think it's working."

"Just wait."

Roman waited another few moments, but nothing happened. He opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped by a sudden swirling feeling inside of him. He stumbled, almost hitting the barrier, but Logan shot forward - through the barrier - and caught him just in time.

Perhaps that would have flustered Roman, if he wasn’t so distracted by the change inside of him.

He felt his entire body - and even his clothes - change, and it didn't quite hurt, but it was certainly uncomfortable. He twisted and turned for what felt like hours, but was probably just minutes.

Then, it finally ended, and Roman let out a few deep breaths, before he looked down at himself. His clothes were the simple blue ones that Logan wore, and his body seemed to be the exact same as Logan's.

He then looked back at Logan.

"Okay. How are we going to get down?"

"I only had enough ingredients for one flying potion, so I shall have to carry you."

Roman's face began to warm.

He hadn't had human contact in a long time, especially not contact with someone as handsome as Logan.

"Is that alright?" Logan continued.

"Uh... yes. Yes. That will be perfectly fine."

Logan nodded. He floated closer, and then, without any further warning, he scooped Roman up into his arms, bridal-style. He did it easily, with a surprising amount of strength in his body.

Roman almost let out an embarrassing squeak sound, but only just managed to stop himself as he found himself resting against Logan's chest.

He felt his face - well, Logan's face, as that was what he was currently wearing - warm even further, probably reddening significantly.

They began to float downwards, and Roman found himself looking up at Logan’s face.

Roman certainly hoped that Logan wasn't about to betray and murder him, as that would make things very awkward.

[thefloorisbalaclava]

will we be getting something about Frankie and the bow you teased in previous neighbour fics or it will be left just a tease up to our imaginations? its okay if you aren't writing anything for it, you are so busy writing all the time! I was just curious 💕

I almost forgot about the bow thing!!! Sorry!!

[neighbor!frankie masterlist]

---

You had gotten through two movies before you began dozing off on Frankie’s shoulder. He let you sleep for awhile, loving how you curled yourself up and leaned against him. He kissed the top of your head a few times and it made you stir in your sleep and mumble.

Eventually, he had to move so he could wash the dishes so he carefully moved you so that your head rested against the armrest.

You woke up to find a blanket draped over you and Frankie nowhere to be found. The television was off and it was comfortably quiet. Suddenly, you heard a noise in the kitchen. When you looked up in that direction, Frankie walked out and smiled at you.

"Hey sleepyhead," he said, drying his hands with a towel.

"Hey...what did I miss?" You stretched and sat up.

"You missed It's a Wonderful Life," he said.

"Aw man...sorry." You rubbed your eyes. "I should head home."

"Wait!" he said a little too loudly then put a hand over his mouth. "Don't go...yet. I, uh, I have a surprise for you."

"Where’s Gabriela?" you asked.

"She's sleeping." He grinned knowingly. "Just wait...right there, okay? Gimme five minutes then meet me in the bedroom." He disappeared down the hall then reappeared to run over and give you a kiss. "Five minutes."

"Okay," you giggled. You could hear a lot of shuffling and him talking to himself before it went quiet. You were excited but you waited five minutes like he asked you to. "Alright," you whispered as you walked to the bedroom.

"Come in whenever you're ready," he said nervously.

"How'd you even know I was- OH! Frankie!" you exclaimed. Your eyes widened when you saw him lying there on the bed in nothing but a Santa hat and a large bow covering his penis.

"Told you I had something planned." He looked at you nervously when you wouldn't say anything. "W-What do you think? Is it too much? I'm sorry..."

You laughed and climbed onto the bed with him. "It's perfect. You're perfect." You kissed him softly. "So...Santa Frankie...what did you bring me?"

He looked down. "All you gotta do is remove the bow." He chuckled and you kissed him again.

"Haven't I gotten that gift already?" You brushed your lips against his.

"It's the gift that keeps on giving. Didn't you know that?" he said and you snorted.

"You are something else, Mr. Morales." You took off his Santa hat and ran your fingers through his hair. "You're...everything and I love you."

"I love you, too. I want you to know that you were my gift this year. You came into my life at a time when I didn't have much hope. You helped me learn to smile again, laugh again. Love again," he added, tears filling his eyes.

"Frankie..." All you could do was wrap your arms around him.

You held each other for awhile before making love, holding each other close the whole time. Afterwards, you laid there wearing his Santa hat and just talking. He looked over your shoulder at the clock he kept on his bedside table.

"Merry Christmas," he said with a smile.

"Merry Christmas. This is the first time I've spent Christmas with anyone in a very long time," you admitted.

"I have something for you," he said as he reached into the drawer. He turned to you and held out a little trinket with your name etched into it. "It's not much but...I made it myself. For someone who loves nature as much as I do."

"You made this?" You ran your fingers over the carving.

"Yeah. It's supposed to be a tree but I could use a little practice."

"It's perfect, Frankie. I love it." You kissed him then sat up. "Gotta go get yours. Uhhh..." You rolled out of bed then grabbed one of his shirts to throw over you before running to the living room to get the gift out of your coat pocket. You ran back and jumped onto the bed. "Here."

"For me?" His eyes lit up as he sat up and began unwrapping the gift. He opened the box and gasped, looking up at you. "This is an-"

"Aviator's watch. Yeah. It has GPS and multiple time zones. When Gabi leaves maybe you can set it so that you can see what time it is where she is so you'll always know..."

"Yeah," he said quietly, voice cracking. "Yeah." He looked at you and smiled. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." You picked up your gift again. "This is lovely. I didn't know you could do this. Wanna teach me sometime?" you joked.

"I dunno. My lessons can get pretty expensive," he said, putting his gift on the nightstand before turning back to you.

"What does it cost?"

"Kisses. Lots of them." He moved closer to you and you laughed.

"Oh, I think we can set up a payment plan, hm?" You pressed your forehead to his.

"For you? Anything." He kissed you softly. "Merry Christmas."

---

frankie taglist: @fakenoods @oldstuffnewstuff @the-bird-suit @lestrange2703 @findhimfives @windfallss @limenlimon @66wookies @rach7 @surfsup666 @theghostwiththemost-babe @marshmallow--3 @mrschiltoncat @aplaceofpeace @josepedropascal @mitchi-c @panda-angela @jeeperky @allthingsnarcos @laymegentlytorest @stanfordscrush @fangirlingss @damerondjarin @darthdumbasss @helga1031 @triggerhappyflygirl @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @ladybeediva @heythere80sbaby

permanent taglist: @gallowsjoker @magicsuperheroes @feelmyroarrrr @the-dazzling-urbanite @phoenixhalliwell @liveloudwriteloud @tumblogbykarapaloma @jaime1110 @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @pascalz @blancatobarxoxo @dazedrhapsody @pascalisthepunkest @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @cryptkeepersoul @tiffdawg @freak-of-nature2002 @kingpascals @saltywintersoldat @theocatkov @babybelou @mandilflorian @aeryntheofficial @cyaredindjarin @winters-buck @the-feckless-wonder @loki-098 @arabellathorne @giselatropicana @dindisneydjarin @punkpascal @opheliaelysia @takens-world @huliabitch @stardelic @kandomeresbitch @havenforafrazzledmind @thisis-theway @stardust-galaxies @mrsparknuts @jedi-mando @frankiemorales @edencherries @lilkermit14 @virtualxjournality @ladytrashbird @thirstworldproblemss @emesispo @heresathreebee @tangledlove27 @marvgrrl @clydes-hole @hayley-the-comet @insoucianttt @witchyavenger @coaaster @starless-eyes-remain @wanderlustmags @wonderfulfluffer @lv7867 @lovelyasfcuk @pedropasscals @talesfromtheguild @pedroepascal @wigwitch @seasonschange-butpeopledont @theoria850 @roxypeanut @justanotherblonde23 @autumnleaves1991-blog @kenedyybrooklin @artsymaddie @dindjareen @silverfish-kingdom @heyitmelexie @gredandfeorgesgirl @mandaloriandindjarin @andriecastana @rosiefridayrogersunday @ssppoorrkk @amalie-buch @lucifer- @mstgsmy @randomness501 @max--phillips @darthadeline @youarenewformetoo @thehippiequilter @whovian-gurl @neverlandlibrarian @chibi-liz05 @dragons-of-the-usa @over300books @borderlinedindjarin

i hope everyone is where they want to be! let me know if you want to be changed around! join a taglist here!

[once-upon-a-pirate-ship]

How Restlessly the Stars Do Gleam: Chapter Five

Hi guys--I was hoping to have updated before now, but I got COVID pretty bad (despite being double vaxxed + boosted) right before my winter break ended, so I was barely able to write for about two weeks.

But anyway, here it is!

Special shout out to my new friends on the csmm discord. You guys are the best.

Read it on AO3 or start at the beginning.

Chapter 5: The Next Step

rated M for honestly disgusting graphic things that I hope aren't toooo bad.

It wasn’t the sun, that was the first thing he noticed; it was the stars. Because there was still a glow by the tips of the trees that his large amber eyes saw from the slanted bars at the highest point of the cavern, but when that first pinprick of light pierced his inhuman gaze, that was what preceded the pain.

The first time it’d happened, when he’d cowered in the corner of his cell, fear creeping farther up his arms with every minute closer to dawn—he’d imagined the pain, that it would be worse than he could dream, and he’d been right.

He’d hoped, that first day, when the sun slid closer to the horizon, that his return to human form wouldn’t be as painful. He’d been wrong.

Leo hated being wrong.

But what he hated more was the pain, the way it cracked his bones one by one, lining themselves up in that unnatural way, prying them apart to make room for the new ones. And his skin tore with the warping of his body, scratching and ripping every muscle as the other ones seared into existence, tacking themselves onto his raw bones. A fire plucked along his still-bleeding skin, raising scales that should never have been there.

The first glimmer of a star above brought back his humanity in the form of fear, when everything burned twice as hot, when his bones shrunk and shattered under the weight of his cursed form, and the scales that made up his wings shredded, set themselves alight, smothered him with every involuntary twitch of monstrous muscles.

He lay curled up on the floor that whole night, sobbing from the pain, clutching his arms around his body to brace against the ghost of his agony that wouldn’t leave, dreading the disappearance of the stars and the terror it would bring.

The second morning wasn’t better, but it wasn’t worse, and when night finally came, he only had to rest a few hours before he could bear to stand. He used that time to think, to reassess his plans with the new realities of his life.

Even while in his dragon form, he was still himself. He knew that, mostly because of all the time he spent concerned about his parents and his sister, how much he feared for their safety. He was more himself closer to the times of his transformation, and that was important to note, because it implied that there was a time where he was least himself, right at mid-day, when he became most dangerous. He wasn’t, not yet, but when he escaped the dungeon and ran into civilization, he needed to be sure of himself, of the danger he posed to others. Especially when the weeks turned into months.

He was terrified of that—even more than the pain. Of losing what made him human and plunging deeper into the monster, of becoming the monster.

But he wasn’t. Not yet. He still had time.

He spent his night planning, cursing himself for not carrying anything to write with, not daring to scratch his plans into the walls and risk exposure, and when the last star dimmed overhead, he crumbled into nothing but grotesque angles and unimaginable misery.

—

It took him two weeks to make his escape.

He’d come up with no fewer than six means of escape, and they were all rendered obsolete when he followed a stray thought reminding him of the Evil Queen’s overconfidence.

Leo picked the damn lock.

Never in his planning had he assumed she’d left his cell unprotected from magic, but she hadn’t even put in the effort to seal him in. It only proved to him how much she didn’t know his parents.

Sure, it had been Emma who’d taught him after he’d tried to sneak into the kitchen late one night—he’d probably been eight or so—and she’d found him there, tugging uselessly at the knob. He’d never been more grateful to have had her guidance than he was when the lock clicked open.

The dungeon was huge, filled with cell after cell, bars casting shadows from the torches that never burnt out. He raced past, the bag he’d fashioned thrown over his shoulder carrying the few things he had.

He was forced to turn left as the labyrinth of cells continued, and he slowed, quieting his footsteps and listening for anything at all. He had to turn twice more, right and then left again, and each turn made him more cautious, made him ready for a threat of any kind.

His grip tightened on his dagger, though he kept it concealed behind his body. He needed to keep his focus and his control; if he launched himself into an attack prematurely, he would miss a better opening and give the attacker the upper hand. His sister would never have done that.

Remembering another one of her lessons, Leo sucked in a steady breath, timing the next with the step that followed.

There was a creak that sounded from nearby, and it stilled his muscles, caught his breath before it could release in an exhale.

“Hello?” a voice called.

Leo hesitated, studying the tone of the voice. Something wavered in it, something that seemed familiar: fear.

He crept forward, his eyes pouring over each cell that he passed, until he found it, found him, perched on a bed.

He had to have been Leo’s age, he thought, and for a long moment, they stared wide eyed at each other in the darkness.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, moving to his feet and taking a tentative step towards the bars.

There weren’t a lot of options, Leo mused, and even though every second stalled raised his risk, he couldn’t just leave.

“I’m escaping,” Leo whispered, examining the boy’s expression.

“So I’m guessing you’re an enemy of the Evil Queen, too?” he said, pushing back some of his unkempt hair.

It was all the confirmation Leo needed. He reached into his bag, retrieving the two picks that he’d never been without since his sister had put them in his hands nearly ten years before, and then he went to work on the lock. The cell door rattled when it opened, and Leo pushed it further.

“Let’s go,” he told him, “and I hope you’re good in a fight, because I’m sure there’s some Black Knights waiting for us outside.”

The boy hurried to the open door, having nothing to gather or carry like Leo did, but then he froze, one foot touching freedom and the other inside. “Wait,” he said.

“What?” Leo asked, glancing quickly in both directions.

“There’s someone else, she’s asleep. I can’t leave her here,” he explained, passing Leo and jogging down two cells.

Sure enough, a woman—probably Snow’s age—lay sleeping on the straw-filled bed. Leo didn’t wait this time, he just repeated the familiar movements until the lock clicked.

“Belle,” the boy called softly, and the woman stirred, shooting upright when she saw the two standing just outside her open cell.

“Roland?” she asked, blinking to remove the sleep from her eyes. She glanced uneasily at Leo, but the promise of freedom was too much for her to wait any longer.

“He was escaping when he found me,” Roland explained quickly, “he picked the lock. Let’s go!”

“Hang on,” Leo said, passing Belle the dagger hilt-first without hesitation. “You might need this. The guards won’t give up easily.” He glanced at Roland who shook his head.

“I’ve got it covered,” he replied, curling his fist and letting a smile touch his lips.

Leo nodded, taking the butter knife from his bag and replacing the lock-picks. “Good. Everything else can wait until after we’re out of this place,” he said.

They walked on, and Leo found that he was more on edge, more prepared for disaster with people to protect, and when they reached the stairs that led up to a sturdy wooden door, he held up a hand.

He knelt to the ground, tucking the knife into his belt and picking up a rock about the size of his palm, then another. After motioning for them to stand to the side and out of view of the door, he threw it, grinning at the loud thump it made when it connected with the wood.

Voices carried indistinctly from outside, and Leo barely backed behind the wall in time for the door to be yanked open, revealing an angry guard.

He grumbled to himself as he descended, and as soon as his helmet came into view, Leo smacked the rock against it with all of his strength. The man slumped onto the ground, unconscious.

Leo knelt and took the guard’s sword, passing it to Roland who accepted it reluctantly, adjusting his grip as if it had been a while. Leo waved a hand, signaling for them to follow as he climbed the stairs.

He pressed himself flat against the wall, cataloging the movement outside, estimating three more. This was the hard part. Anyone under the control of the queen who saw his face had to be prevented from revealing that particular information. And with their stolen hearts forcing their cooperation, there wasn’t much he could do.

Leo retrieved his knife once more, putting up a hand to tell them to wait. Roland nodded, and it was clear that he understood the plan. Bait.

Leo strolled out through the door, recovering some of his princely nonchalance. “Gentlemen!” he greeted, and the three men startled, dropping their cards onto the old wooden table and letting chairs tip over in their haste to stand up.

“Just what is it that you think you’re doing, you little brat?” one of the men growled, his pointed sword following Leo as he wandered in a half-circle, forcing one of the guards to stand right in front of the door.

Leo smiled sweetly, the exact one his mother had always called mischievous. “I had thought that was quite obvious,” he said, “I’m escaping.”

When the first man launched himself forward, Leo stepped out of the way, setting off the guard’s balance. He saw Belle and Roland appear out of the corner of his eye, allowing him to focus on his attacker.

“You little…” the man snarled, but Leo was ready, and he dropped to the ground, sweeping his leg to send the other man sprawling.

Leo kicked his wrist and he dropped the sword automatically, but that angered him more, and he snatched Leo’s ankle, yanking him onto the ground, his body smacking down hard enough that it disoriented him for a moment while the man took advantage.

He glared with murderous glee as he pinned Leo down, the guard’s gloved hands closing around his neck and tightening, stealing his air supply. Leo’s arm shot out, the dull blade of his knife finding the patch of exposed skin above the leather hem of the Black Knight’s uniform and he pressed in, slashing one quick cut along the neck.

Leo shuddered when he pushed the guard off him, dropping the knife and not letting himself look at the blood that gleamed in the firelight.

Several feet away, Roland was meeting his guard blow for blow, but Belle had dropped the dagger he’d given her, and the last guard spewed taunting words as he drew nearer to her.

Taking the fallen sword, Leo jumped to his feet, moving until he stood between Belle and the Black Knight.

“It’s cowardly to fight someone who’s unarmed,” Leo told him, and the guard only laughed.

“You must be the prince,” he said, “you and your precious honor code.”

“The rules are a bit different in times of war, I’ll give you that,” Leo offered, lunging, but the guard parried easily.

“Come on, boy, you won’t win.”

In many ways, Leo was quite different from his sister. He often preferred hand-to-hand; he’d rather have started his day in the practice yard than end it there; he liked green grapes and she liked red. But neither of them liked to be underestimated, and both of them loved a challenge.

“Try me,” he said, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Four moves and the guard was disarmed—Leo was a bit disgruntled to know that his sister probably could’ve done it in two—and then he held his blade against the Black Knight’s neck.

Roland came to stand beside him, his own sword covered in blood. “The Evil Queen has ways—if you leave him alive, he’ll…”

“I know,” Leo said sadly. “We have to. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

His parents would’ve been disappointed, and he hated that he was so sure of that. They’d taught him that everyone always had a choice. That no one needed to die, not really. He was staining his hands with blood, but if he didn’t, Regina would’ve gladly painted herself with his.

The sword trembled in his hand, and he had to pause, had to imagine his sister there next to him. What would she have said? Survival, Leo. Your survival is the most important thing, if you ask me. Our parents don’t always get that. But if it comes down to it, and it’s your life or someone else’s, you know what I’d choose in a heartbeat.

He did.

He just hoped she would recognize him when he found her again.

—

Emma’s limbs ached when she stepped onto the deck the following morning, but the damage to the ship was distracting enough that she hardly felt it.

The top half of the mast lay across the deck, though most of the destruction it had caused had already been swept away by the crew. It was a setback, in more ways than one, and she tried not to let shattered hope cut her when it curled in her gut.

Liam spotted her, leaving Terry and joining Emma by the railing. “We’re surveying the damage now, Captain, and we should have an estimate for the repairs before we reach port.”

“Thank you.” She nodded once, her eyes taking in the fractured wood as she attempted to calculate time and money and everything else.

“I hope your trip into the sea had no lasting effects on your health,” Liam said, attempting casual and avoiding the words he wished to ask. She heard them anyway.

“None at all,” she replied. “And you needn’t thank me again, I heard you last night.”

His mouth tugged down, but he forced his lips into a taut line. “Very well,” he said, though his gaze was too heavy.

Tink appeared, slipping easily into their conversation and giving Emma the perfect excuse to change the subject, but Tink had other ideas.

“I see you’re all rosy-cheeked this morning,” she said.

“I feel completely normal, so everyone can stop worrying about my health,” Emma replied, keeping her tone light and teasing, but her own worry made her voice hollow. “On the other hand, how’s your brother?” she asked Liam.

Tink laughed, “Are you two exchanging notes? Because I believe he said something quite similar not an hour ago, though he was asking about you.”

Emma credited her upbringing for the impassive expression she managed to hold onto. “Well, then I can assume he hasn’t taken ill over the night,” she said, though her fears still tugged at her stomach, still begged for visual confirmation that he was well.

“Captain!” Will greeted them, but his smile held something suspicious as he looked at Emma. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting back that gorgeous blade you gave me last night?”

Emma’s eyebrows shot up, her arms folding over her chest. “That was a gift from my father, thank you very much. Yes, I’d like it back.”

He heaved a sigh, pulling the blade from his belt and offering it to her, only to bring it back toward himself in a desperate attempt to memorize it. “She’s likely the most beautiful thing me sore eyes have ever seen,” he told her, looking truly wistful.

“You get ten more seconds, Scarlet, and then I’ll cut you with the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen,” she warned, only partially joking.

Will bowed dramatically, raising the dagger that rested across both hands. “It’d be an honor to be wounded by such a thing of beauty,” he said.

Emma rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself, and then she took her dagger, sliding it back into its casing in her boot. “At ease, Scarlet,” Emma ordered, and Will righted himself, grinning his little grin before glancing at the other two.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” he snapped. “Can’t a man admire a good blade when he sees one?”

Tink shrugged, no longer interested, looking instead at Red who approached.

“Ah, I see Will has returned the dagger to its rightful place,” she said, amusement coloring her voice.

“Even though it killed me to part with it,” Will mumbled, earning him a half-hearted glare from Emma.

Red ignored them, turning to Liam instead. “Did you put her out of her misery and tell her that Killian is feeling just fine this morning?”

Liam’s lips twitched at Emma’s sound of mild protest that didn’t convince anyone of anything. “I wouldn’t dream of prolonging our captain’s suffering,” he replied.

Emma groaned, leaving them without another word and busying herself by joining Terry at the helm to get the information the others didn’t seem to care about.

—

She spent over a long time helping one person or another as soon as she’d left the others, answering something or deciding something else that no one else apparently had the power to decide. But that wasn’t what had frustrated her, no, it was the fact that each person magically appeared just when she thought of the right thing to say to the figure working at the other end of the deck. And every time, without fail, she’d been interrupted on her way there.

Emma had nearly sagged in her relief when she’d seen his dark hair appear from below deck, and though she’d been far away, his gaze had pierced into her for the few seconds he’d allowed it to linger before giving his attention to his brother.

But that had been hours earlier, before the giant question mark that stood over her loomed larger, and she dragged Red into her quarters to figure out what they could do.

“We can’t simply stay in one port, waiting for the ship to be fixed, Emma, that’d be pushing our luck,” Red told her from her seat at the table, her gaze even despite the doubt that seeped into her words.

Emma stood abruptly, pacing the length of the cabin as she thought. “So we don’t stay,” she said at last, “we move on. We have to.” The realization was a difficult one to voice, but she had been raised to do exactly that.

“Arendelle is no longer the safe haven we assumed it was.”

“Yes, Red, I know,” Emma replied, too irritated for anyone’s good.

“Look, Emma,” Red sighed, moving to stand in front of her to stop the pacing. “We were alone in this for a long time, but we don’t have to be anymore. We have allies—you have allies. Let me go and gather a few of them, and then we can discuss options.”

She didn’t wait for Emma to respond before disappearing, leaving her to pace once more as she wore her hands together, nearly rubbing the skin raw while her mind raced through it all.

They’d already faced a good deal together, had spent weeks aboard this ship, but they’d never considered what would happen if the fight moved off the sea. The ship was their home, how could she possibly ask them to leave it?

It was Will and Liam who joined Red when she returned, and Emma couldn’t deny the disappointment that rose within her. But now was not the time.

They sat with her at the table like her counsel, and for a moment, she imagined the cabin was the war room of her castle. She was able to think a little clearer, plan a little easier.

“We’re faced with a dilemma,” Emma began, forcing her voice and posture to emulate her mother. “This ship needs repairs that I cannot wait around for, and the magical assistance I hoped to find in Arendelle is no longer a viable option.”

It was Liam who spoke first, no hesitation in his expression. “So we leave the ship, search land for another magical aid.”

Red nodded to herself slowly, freezing when something struck her. “Of course,” he mumbled, realization lighting her features. “I’ve heard of something, an object that could allow us to glimpse into the lives of others—we could find out where Queen Elsa is, see if she is in any position to help us.”

The power itself terrified her, though she believed the potions she and Red had taken guarded them from any such magic. “Where is this object?” Emma asked.

Red moved to her feet, scanning the map laid out on the table. Her finger traced along the paper until she found what she’d been looking for. “Here,” she said, “the Dark One’s abandoned castle. Should be a few days’ journey from where we’re landing.”

Emma frowned, joining her godmother to look at their destination. Not many had dared to enter the castle since the Dark One had left it and this realm for another just before her birth, but if it could lead them to something helpful, she had no choice but to take the risk.

“It’ll be quite the trek,” Emma said, a warning to the other two, though neither looked daunted by the task.

“I’ve found that me blades work just as well on land as they do on the sea,” Will replied.

“Red and I spent months in the forests,” Emma said, her eyes on Liam, “it won’t be much of a sacrifice for us to return.”

“And I assure you, my brother and I—while we haven’t spent much time on land—will face whatever hardships come with the same determination,” Liam said resolutely.

She wanted to believe him, wanted so desperately for them to be by her side through it all, but she couldn’t allow him to rush into it, couldn’t let him make a decision he’d regret.

“I appreciate your willingness, but you must take time to consider it. Consult with your brother,” she said.

“All due respect, lass, but you’re the reason he’s still got a brother he can consult with,” Will pointed out.

Emma shot him a glare. “They’re not indebted to me for that, Scarlet. I didn’t do it so I could have two more men in my army.”

“Of course you didn’t, and that makes it all the better,” Will said with a grin.

“No one thinks that, Emma,” Red interjected.

Liam cleared his throat, sitting a bit straighter in his chair. “I will discuss it with Killian, but you know as well as I that he’ll be in complete agreement. And we know you didn’t jump in that water for any other reason than to save his life.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Emma assured him, “please think nothing of it.”

Liam looked as though he thought quite a bit of it, but he chose not to say anything else regarding that particular subject for the time being.

“So we leave the ship,” Red declared.

“Perhaps not permanently,” Emma said. “If we selected some of the crew to remain behind and oversee repairs, we could return after, hopefully, having found something of value.”

Liam considered that for a long moment, his hand rubbing against the scruff on his chin. “We leave Terry along with the others who stayed aboard after Silver,” he offered, though it sounded more like he was simply thinking aloud.

“And August,” Red added. “I’ve worked with him quite a bit in the last several days, and I know he would keep the others inspired.”

“So that would turn our party into six, which would be much more manageable on land,” Will said.

Emma glanced around at her allies, nodding after a moment. “Before we make this decision, we should discuss this with the absent two,” she paused, glancing at Liam, “however, if both Tink and Killian are willing to participate, I suppose we should prepare ourselves for the trek ahead. We’ll want to leave as soon as we make port.”

They took that as a dismissal, leaving her to her preparations.

Although their discussion had resulted in a new plan, the tension didn’t leave her shoulders as she expected, and she knew why.

The ship hadn’t been exactly safe, but it had felt like a haven—she was untouchable there, at least to the Black Knights. They never had to stop moving, the ship always rocked with that reminder, and stepping onto land meant giving that up, being vulnerable. That wasn’t something she was good at.

Just as Emma was tucking the last of her belongings into her bag, a knock sounded at her door. She called for them to enter, and the door creaked open when she’d finished securing the straps, dropping the satchel onto the bunk.

“Swan,” Killian said, and when Emma glanced up at him, he was standing hesitantly in the doorway.

She straightened, forgetting about her bag and the journey and everything else. “I believe I said that you can come in,” she smiled.

“That would hardly be proper…”

Emma quirked an eyebrow. “What, do you need a chaperone?” she asked.

His cheeks tinged red and he shifted unsteadily until he finally stepped into the room. “I, um, wished to inform you that my brother and I will be joining you during the next phase of your journey.”

“Liam suspected you’d say as much,” she muttered.

“Aye, well, he also mentioned that you insisted I be consulted on the matter, so I thought I needed to guarantee our presence myself.”

Emma had to look away for a moment. “As I’ve said before, I don’t want you to think you’re…bound to me or anything,” she said. “It has to be your choice. Always.”

“And as I told you before, that will always be the choice I make,” he insisted.

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, her jaw tightening with several different kinds of tension. “You’re allowed to change your mind, that’s all.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll keep asking, anyway.”

Killian sighed, crossing his arms, too. “And I’ll keep thanking you for saving my life, no matter how many times you tell me I don’t need to.”

“I told you before, it wasn’t even a question,” she said, working to keep the emotion out of her voice.

“That fact alone is worth the world to me,” he murmured, his eyes locking with hers. “You believe that I deserve to be saved, so I will work every day to prove you right.”

Her arms dropped from their hold against her body, and she took a step towards him. “Killian, of course you deserve to be saved.”

His blush curved around his cheeks, reaching the tips of his ears, but his gaze never faltered. “I’m going to prove it to you, anyway.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Emma said, her lips curling into a smile.

It was the perfect opening, the exact moment when she could finally say something real to him, say something that would make them both certain—

“We’re an hour from port, Emma.”

Red appeared behind Killian in the doorway, glancing between the two of them and looking sheepish, like she’d interrupted something. And she had, but Emma never would have mentioned that.

“I’ll be on deck shortly,” Emma told her, a little too quickly.

She left them with a nod, but the tension had already been shattered; the moment was already over.

“I should leave you to prepare…” Killian trailed off, looking unsure. “I should do the same.”

“Yes,” Emma replied, sounding nearly breathless, “yes, of course.”

And then she was alone.

[imnotusedtobeingloved]

EQUALLY LUCKY

(PLEASE DON’T REBLOG!)

Warnings: Internal conflict / Mental struggles.

Pairing: Azula x f!Reader

Characters: Azula, Zuko, Izumi.

Requested: Yes!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, nor the gif. Credit to the owners.

Summary: You get a glimpse into Azula’s life years after Sozin’s Comet, with you by her side.

A/N: This was my first time making an x reader with Azula, so i’m very nervous to post this lol. It got way more angsty than i intended it to be, but i also wanted to try and stay true to Zula’s character to some extent. And i very much hope i did. Thank you for the great request @the-desert-shewolf​ i hope this is what you were looking for.

“Zuzu, you don’t look so good!”

The last Agni Kai. It was a day that was forever branded into your mind. You could still remember the heat of her flames. How her patient, strategic mind slipped into a rash and impulsive demeanor. She’d fataly wounded her own brother. Ready to do the same to Katara, if she hadn’t stopped her. And that was when you’d found her. Chained to a grid on the floor like an animal, crying in despair and spitting fire like a dragon. Nobody dared to go near her for hours. Nobody but you. “You need to stop, Azula,” You’d cried tears of your own as you forcefully hugged her, body winding against yours. Still trying to free herself. Still trying to fight. Still trying to win. “Please... I’m begging you...” Her whimper broke your heart. You were all that she had left.

There were times when not even a heartfelt “I love you,” could save her. Instead it was interpreted as a further manipulation through her mother. The so called ‘Puppetmaster’. She felt so far out of reach.

But not all days were bad. Sometimes Azula remembered. In the bright hours she recalled your supportive actions and words. You always hoped they would give her some kind of strength. And it wasn’t any easier to face those hardships yourself. To love someone who was hurt so very deeply.

“Being damaged doesn’t give you the right to abuse others,”

A lot of people called her crazy. Called you crazy for feeling affection towards the princess. But what were you supposed to do? You couldn’t just ignore them. Or turn them off. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t what you wanted. All you were trying to do was to care for a person you’d known since you were a kid. A childhood friend, teenage crush and an adult lover. Where Zuko had been saved by Iroh, Azula had been saved by you. But it wasn’t quite the same. You'd just been a little kid yourself at the time.

“Are you going to see Azula?” You nodded, smiling at Zuko over your shoulder. The robes of the Fire Lord really suited him. “I am. I want to surprise her with a picnic,” He raised a brow, curiously leaning over the little basket on the table before you. You’d spent hours picking out different kinds of tarts and snacks, trying not to get in the way of the cooks.

It was a perfect summer day. The climate was warm and mild. Your timing couldn’t have been better.

Years had passed since Sozin’s Comet occured. Years full of anxiety and anger. But finally you’d arrived in a part of your life, where things were looking up again. The time spend supporting Zuko as the Fire Lord hadn’t been wasted. Both of you worked together on a daily basis. Especially when it came to his sister. Despite everything she had done, he couldn’t deny that he held a soft spot for her. So it was no wonder that she resided in one of the finest suites of the palace. After being monitored and treated for ages, her mental heatlh finally regained stability.

“She’s lucky to have you, (Y/N),” He said, attempting to steal one of the tarts only to earn a slap on the hand. Grumbling he retreated, watching as you checked the contents again, before closing the lid. “Maybe,” You turned around to face your friend. “But i’d like to think we’re equally lucky,”

Your picnic was set up in the gardens, by the fountain, under the old apple tree.

Her whole life Azula only gained approval from two people. Her father and you. The few moments of empathy she experienced were supported by you. If she had a nightmare late at night, you’d crawl into bed with her. When you reduced the choice between you two to physical affection, Ozai couldn’t keep up with you. The mixed messages her parents gave her as a child were what lead her into misery. But her best friend, someone of the same age, stuck by her.

Eventually you’d won her over. Relationships were rekindled. Needs were met.

And right this moment, you were beyond glad that you had. “There you are, sugarplum,” An involuntary grin spread on your face. You’d been so busy with displaying everything perfectly that you hadn’t heard her come up behind you. “I see you haven’t grown tired of the petnames,” That nickname would truly stick with you for life. She’d once used it mockingly, back when you visited Ember Island. And she did ever since. It was always used with an edge of sarcasm, but never empty of love.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way, would you (Y/N)?” You turned around to her, reaching for one of her hands. Her fingers intwined themselves with yours. “Of course not, Azula,” Pulling her towards your little arrangement, you sat down on the blanket, leaning against the strong stem of the tree and patting the spot beside you.

Since her recovery she’d formed a habit of over-sharing her feelings and often apologizing more than nessecary. Those were new sides that you had to grow accustomed to, but that weren’t unwelcome. Nevertheless you were relieved that she also kept some of her wit. She knew she could be free with you. Didn’t need to fear any jugdement. Some days were harder than others. On those Azula would cry a lot. And so would you. You couldn’t stand seeing her so broken.

“Keep it together, (Y/N),” She would say at first, making you laugh through your tears. “It’s okay,” You’d reassure her time and time again. “Healing takes time,”

It was hard to face all those bottled up emotions after such an amout of time. It wasn’t her favorite way to deal with things at first, but she quickly found it helped. And it didn’t take long for her to tell you.

“Sharing your tears doesn’t make you weak,” She’d repeat your words in her darkest times. It brought her comfort. Kept her from going back to her old ways.

The princess moved to sit in the spot next to you, but she never made it that far. Small feet rushed through the grass, running straight into her legs. A tiny, little person curled around them, hugging her as far as she could reach. “Zula!” They squeaked.

The so-called ‘Zula’ raised a brow and crossed her arms, looking down at the little troublemaker. “What do you think you’re doing here?” The girl only lifted her hands in response. You stiffled a smile as Azula picked her up. “Where is your father? Didn’t he want to spend time with you?” Yes he did. And he arrived right on time. “Izumi?” Zuko looked around, searching for her, until he spotted you. The princess was snuggling into her aunt’s chest, a place that always felt warm. You knew it best. “There you are!” His sister raised a brow, tapping her foot on the ground, when he walked up to the three of you. When they stood next to each other, the family-resemblance was undeniable. They shared the same shade of amber eyes, the soft umber strands, and the fair, spotless skin.

It was another person that had helped Azula on her journey. Izumi.

The girl got to experience the childhood the siblings never had. She was proof that princesses didn’t have to be perfect all the time. Nobody did. And she loved her aunt without any doubt or fear.

“You really need to keep better watch on her, Zuzu. This is already the fifth time this has happened,” The Fire Lord nodded, holding his hands out. “Of course. It won’t happen again, i promise,” Azula tried handing her niece over, who whined, clinging to her neck. “But i mean, now that we’re already here, we could also just join you on your picnic,” He argued, pointing to his daughter who held onto Azula’s clothes with all her might. “Izumi seems to like the idea,” You squinted your eyes at him. This was definetely not a coincedence. Accidents don’t repeat themselves that often. “Admit it, Zuko. You’ve purposefully told Izumi that her aunt is here, only so you could get your clutches on our food again!” You’d connected the dots and read the situation. He’d taken a glimpse into your basket every time before you went out the past times. Particular interest always occured when it contained those delicous fruit tarts. With rose pedals on top. He gasped. “No, i didn’t!” 

“He’s lying,” Azula said, rolling her eyes. Izumi proceeded to tell her father that “Lying is bad!” which earned her a gentle pat on the head from her aunt.

Nevertheless they swayed you to share some of the ‘goodies’ as Izumi liked to call them. Finally you had Azula were she belonged. Next to you. Her niece sat in her lap, munching happily as your lover ran her hand through her hair. It had taken some time until she’d been allowed to see Izumi at first. Zuko and her mother hadn’t let them meet each other until his sister was completely stabile. Additionally he didn’t want to put Azula through something she couldn’t handle at the time. Their first meeting had been nervewracking for everyone who watched, but an eye-opening event for the two princesses. They seemed comfortable. Content with each other. Sometimes Azula would act as if Izumi bothered her. But she couldn’t deny that she was fond of the girl.

It was also no secret that Azula was clearly the ‘coolest aunt’. At least from Izumi’s perspective. She looked up to her as the strongest female firebender, to be known. Of course she was still too young to fight. But that didn’t stop her from constantly begging the siblings for stories. “Can you tell me a story?” She’d ask, making a pout. “I’ve told you stories countless times,” Her aunt replied, booping her upturned nose. “Another one, pleeease?” Azula sighed. Zuko chimed in, coming to her aid. He started telling the tale of the ‘Dance of Dragons’ in great detail, paying no mind to his sisters sarcastic comments interrupting the tale. Izumi was exstatic about both of them engaging in the narrative. When the story was completed, he beamed at Azula. “Remember when mother used to take us to watch the Ember Island Players perform this play? Afterwards you and i would reenact every scene. I don’t get why i always had to be the dark water spirit, tough,” His sister scoffed, not hiding her gleefull smirk. “Clearly, i made a better dragon emperor,” Her niece laughed at their antics, clapping her little hands. You could comprehend her joy. It was hilarious to have them both participate.

Unfortunatly, Izumi couldn’t escape her duties forever. “Bye, auntie Zula! Bye auntie (Y/N)!” She waved when Zuko carried her back inside. Upon her loopsided smile, Azula couldn’t help but grin, waving back. It wasn’t a sneer or a grimace. It was a genuine expression of so much beauty, that it took your breath away. When she turned back to face you, she furrowed her brows. “Why are you looking at me like that?” There were a ton of reasons. You didn’t even know were to start. So your delight had to be expressed differently. Her lips weren’t far from yours. It took a mere second to connect them. They were soft, as always. She tasted sweet, like the pastries she’d eaten before. “You’re my everything,” you mumbled, her lips still brushing yours. You see her eyes watering as she struggled to speak her next words. They reminded her of all that she’d endured. And yet you’re important enough for her to pull through. “I love you, (Y/N),”

A moment later the tears were replaced by a smile. Her hands came to rest on your cheeks, one of her thumbs running over your bottom lip, removing the lipstick hers had left. You yelped as she abruptly grabbed your shoulders, pulling you to rest your head in her lap.

She worked to untangle your locks, massaging your scalp in the process. Her nails lightly scraped your skin every so often. It felt relaxing. Heavenly. The smell of smoke and leather teased your senses. Something so familiar that it was like home. You allowed yourself to close your eyes for a moment, being at peace with just... feeling her. Being in her presence.

“Agni, you look just as self satisfied as my niece,” She playfully remarked.

The slight breeze made the leaves rustle softly. “Why wouldn’t i?” You chuckled, slowly opening your eyes to look up at her. Her slim fingers hadn’t stopped spoiling you. She looked stunning in the midday sun. Her eyes glowed like molten gold, framed by long, dark lashes, casting shadows on her cheeks. “I’m being pampered by the princess herself. I consider myself to be very lucky,” Her lips pulled into a smile as she caught your gaze.

“You’re right, (Y/N). We are lucky,”

Because everything you did for her, she would return tenfold.

Despite all the hardships, neglect and abuse she’d suffered, Azula had managed to get out on the other side.

Stronger, and better than ever.

Reconnected to the world around her, she remained one of the most powerful fire benders. Her blue flames offering protection wherever you’d go.

When she’d first felt affection towards you, she thought you were her weakness.

Now she knew you were her strength.

[lesetoilesfous]

i feel like "anger born of worry" is CLASSIC fenders, but i'm also 👀 at "impaled palm"

Ok, I tried my hand at doing both (haha) and I really hope you like it! If this wasn't what you were imagining, let me know and I'll try again!!

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: Impaled Palm, Anger Born of Worry

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders, evil/red Garrett Hawke, Isabela

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Attempted Rape, Torture, Mutilation, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Implied Domestic Abuse, Implied Sexual Abuse

Additional Tags: Red Hawke and Anders have been in a 'relationship' for a while, Fenris finds out exactly how fucked up it is, please mind the tags, hurt/comfort, angst with a bittersweet ending

Fenris hadn’t actually wanted to go back. Hawke had told them all to leave that morning, making no effort to hide the hungry way he was staring at his apostate lover. Fenris had been glad of the excuse, and he and Isabela had enjoyed a companionable few hours trekking back up the Wounded Coast, discussing her various adventures. They were in sight of the high bright walls of Kirkwall when Fenris realised he didn’t have A Slave's Life. He and Isabela had taken a moment before the always-exhausting climb back up the steps into the city proper, and Fenris had wanted to take the opportunity to do a little reading. But the book wasn’t there. With an anxious lurch of his stomach, he’d realised he must have left it back at camp - where Hawke and Anders were...exploring each other. Grimacing, Fenris had told Isabela he’d needed to go back. She’d offered to accompany him, but Fenris had assured her that if he could make it across southern Thedas on his escape from Tevinter half-starved and unable to speak the language, he could handle a few raiders on the Wounded Coast. Besides, he knew how desperately she was longing to see her own mage again, and as much as her intimacy with a blood mage discomfited him, he also found that he was reluctant to separate them.

By the time Fenris got back to their camp, the sun was high in the sky and the sea was crashing in white peaked waves against the shore with a light breeze. He’d found his book in short order, buried beneath a pile of rust red blankets by one of the tents. The leather cover was soft and warm beneath his fingers, and the weight of it released the stress that had been building in his chest ever since he thought he’d lost it. Fenris had been planning to simply turn back to Kirkwall, not interested in announcing his presence to the happy couple, mouth already unpleasantly thick with the smell of sex.

But then Anders had screamed.

The sound was short, strangled and bitten off abruptly. Fenris thinks he might not even have heard it, if the wind had been passing in a different direction, or the waves had been a little louder. But he did. And Fenris had spent seven years protecting this man’s life, and having his own protected in turn. So he dropped into a crouch and crept towards the sound.

*

Fenris’ first thought is that it’s raiders - that feels like the most obvious explanation. It’s difficult to walk quietly on the sand dunes, but Fenris had had no shortage of practice silencing his steps in Tevinter, and now his toes sink soundlessly into the hot sand. When he lifts his head over the dune, long reeds scratching at his skin, sword propped lightly against the sand, it takes Fenris several moments to decipher the image in front of him.

Anders is half-dressed. This much, Fenris had expected. His pants are a twisted mess of fabric around his calves, and his shirt is unlaced and loose, riding up his belly - which for all Hawke’s insistent feeding is still terribly thin. His hair is a mess in the sand, tangled and crusted with muck.

But there are no raiders.

What Fenris hadn’t expected was Hawke, fully clothed, face dark with a hunger Fenris had only ever seen on the battlefield. As Fenris watches, blood roaring in his ears, Hawke leans down and bites Anders’ neck. Anders keens, writhing weakly beneath the shorter, stronger man - much more weakly than Fenris expects. He wants to believe that this is playfighting, some kind of roleplay, the likes of which Isabela extolls in her frequent trips to The Blooming Rose.

But this flickering candle of hope is doused, abruptly, when Fenris tears his eyes away from where Hawke is mauling Anders’ neck and sees Anders’ hand, skewered with one of Hawke’s knives. The dagger has been driven straight through his palm into the sand, and his greying skin is covered in black drying blood, as if it’s been there a long time. Occasionally, as Hawke moves over him, tugging at his clothes, his fingers twitch convulsively.

At one point, Hawke’s hand moves beneath Anders’ waistband, and Anders’ struggling increases, suddenly, and Hawke reaches over and grabs the hilt of the dagger in Anders’ palm and twists it. Anders’ screams, again, and again the sound is cut off as Hawke leans down to kiss him, groping him with one hand whilst he tortures him with the other.

Then Fenris is running over the top of the sand dune, sword held high.

Afterwards, Fenris isn’t sure whether he should have killed Hawke. In the moment, it doesn’t feel like he has any choice. He kicks Hawke away from Anders’ bruised, bleeding body, and swings his sword like a batter hitting a ball. Hawke’s head detaches from his shoulders and bounces, briefly, on the sand as his body topples into the wet stand. Fenris stands there, staring at the man who had been his friend and ally for seven years. His arms hold the sword suspended in the air at the end of the movement, as if he had been merely following the familiar steps of a routine. But the blade drips blood onto the sand, and eventually the heat and the wind bring Fenris back into himself.

He hears Anders, choking on sobs behind him, and he drops his blade - not thinking about the coming tide. Anders is sitting, having tried to gather up his ruined pants around his waist. He’s trying to pull the blade out of his palm. Fenris stares at him - tries not to see the stains on his clothes, the bruises on his neck and collarbone and chest, tries not to notice the ways in which he’s exposed. “Use your magic.”

Anders laughs, and it breaks into a sob on the way out of his mouth. “No shit, Fenris. I can’t.” He sobs again, and pulls the dagger out of his hand with a shout, collapsing back into the sand, where he lies on his back, dropping the knife into the dirt like its venomous. For a long moment, he lies on his back, staring up at the sky, hand limp and greying, blood running down the beach toward the sea and staining the sand red. “Magebane. He poisons - poisoned my food.”

Fenris stares, feeling the anger and grief and horror that had somehow, miraculously, failed to hit until now becoming a hurricane in his head. “How long.” Anders says nothing, and Fenris walks closer. “How long has he been doing this to you?”

Anders laughs again. His lips are swollen red and bruising, stained with the dark cherry stains of dried blood in places. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy, and there are long red marks fading up into bruises around his neck. “I don’t know. Since the beginning.”

Fenris thinks he isn’t angry at Anders. He thinks, probably, that he’s angry at himself. But he can’t seem to redirect the flood now it’s started, like a river that’s already falling through a broken dam. “And your demon?”

Anders’ brown eyes slide to look up at him, “Magebane cuts off my connection to him. Makes him...quiet, and weak. He figured that out early, too.”

Fenris grits his teeth, sweating fingers curling and uncurling in his gauntlets. The sea beats ceaselessly against the shore. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Anders squints at him. Fenris thinks he should be doing something: cleaning the cuts, or bandaging them, or doing something for the hand. But he’s caught like a fly in tree sap, unable to move whilst his mind tries to process the enormity of how the last few minutes recontextualise his life. “We’re not exactly friends, Fenris.”

“I would not have left you to this.” Fenris says the words with more heat than he means to, and Anders stares at him for a long, long moment, for once saying nothing.

Eventually, he swallows. “Well then.” Anders’ voice is weaker than usual when he speaks, and tremulous. He coughs, and starts again. “Ready for your first lesson in healing for normies?”

“Normies.” Fenris repeats, utterly wrongfooted by the sheer inanity of the man on his back in front of him.

Anders gives him a thin smile. “People without magic.” Fenris scowls, and Anders’ tight-lipped smile grows into a full-blown, crooked grin. “Lesson number one. If we don’t act soon I’m going to lose this hand. Might have lost it already. But we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

[amaya-writes]

Myriads of memories. A PJO one-shot of how Sally and Poseidon met.

A/N: I’ve decided to post my one-shots, etc. on here as well. This is actually my first one-shot, which I wrote when I was 12, so it might not be very good but I’m still proud of it. 

It had been a long, tiring week at work, the customers had been rowdier than usual, and all Sally wanted to do was get away to her beach cabin in Montauk. Her life had been going down the rabbit hole for quite some time, and all she needed was a little time to get herself together. She rushed off to the local supermarket to retrieve supplies for her week off and then drove off to the cabin.

After thoroughly cleaning the cabin and putting away the food, she made her way to the beach, packing a book, towel, and sunglasses in her handbag. She put on her bathing suit and made her way down the peninsula shaped beach, making sure not to go too far away from her cabin. Sally was an ordinary human in every aspect of the word, except for her wild imagination.

Ever since she was little, Sally would always dream up these weird creatures, things like three-headed baby dragons, lizards with human features, stuff like that. She even spoke to a shrink about it, but they said it seemed not to affect her in any harmful way and might be an overactive imagination.

No, you are not going to think about any of that, this week is going to be nothing short of a peaceful, serene vacation away from everything.

With that thought, she proceeded to read her book and sip her water in peace, occasionally looking up to the sea and smiling. After a bit she could feel her eyes drooping, not wanting to get a terrible sunburn by sleeping out on the beach Sally decided to head back. 

See that wasn't so hard, it's just the strain that caused you to think you saw a boy fight dragon of sorts'

No sooner had she thought that she passed by a (very handsome) man, his wavy brunette curls fell to his remarkably deep green eyes, oh those eyes, she could stare into them all day. Her eyes scanned over his partly unbuttoned shirt and khaki shorts, admiring the way he looked as she walked towards him. 

He was holding something in his hand, as she got closer, she couldn't believe what she saw and was positive her previous thoughts had jinxed her, for the man was holding a trident.

No Sally, stop it!

She groaned and walked on, not noticing the man's curious stare or the things he muttered under his breath as he sighed and walked into the ocean.

*~*~*

A scream pierced through the cabin as the woman thrashed around, ripping the sheets as she tried to escape the horrors her dream portrayed, she let out a final screech before falling off her bed and successfully awakening.

She shivered on the hardwood floor, reminiscing her nightmare's events. It had been the same thing ever since she saw that man on the beach side. It started off in a dark and empty room with voices resonating around her, throwing insults that would make a sailor baffled. 

The room would then light up, blinding her each time as a dark and generally evil man stood by a man surrounded by lighting, torturing her and a boy who she had come to realize was her son.

They would stop and mutter in a language fairly similar to Latin and start the torture once again, causing her to awaken. Sometimes a wave of water would wash them away and bring her back to the beach, but that had only happened once. Sally muttered profanities and headed out of her little cabin, heading to the beach.

You could call it a gut feeling or destiny, but something pulled her towards where she last saw the man with the trident.

This is stupid, I should go back in, who's to say he'll even be there?! oh..

She noticed an outline of a figure holding a trident while gazing at the sea.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" 

He questioned her as she came into hearing distance.

"Um yes, sorry to intrude." 

Sally smiled shyly, still unsure whether she should question his little...instrument, she decided against doing so and instead stared at the peculiar object.

“Oh of course not-"the man trailed off and followed her line of sight before letting out a chuckle, "-how curious, you can see through the mist! Is that why you rushed past me the other day?"  

"Why would you carry such a thing around? Are you one of those Greek god fanatics?" 

This evoked a hearty chuckle as the man dug his trident into the sand, facing her and sighing.

They spent the next few hours sitting in the sand and discussing the apparently real Greek gods, occasionally laughing and bickering over little details. Poseidon summoned a bunch of sea creatures and manipulated the water to convince her of his godship, causing her to stare and coo at the water-works. 

As dusk faded to dawn the both parted ways, promises of meeting the next day being exchanged. And feelings (unbeknownst to them) being developed and reciprocated. If you would have told Sally she'd spend the entire week romantically with the Greek sea god, she would have scoffed and sent you off to a shrink. But currently the past week was all she could think of as she packed up her little cabin, walking down the beach to visit him once again before her leave. 

She approached his surprising disheveled form and set down her bags, watching as the waves grew higher than trees before collapsing.

"What happened?" 

She questioned him as she knelt down in the sand, pulling him to face her. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and clutching onto her hand for dear life.

"You are with child; do not question how I know this. My brothers, if they find out they'll be furious and possibly attempt and harm you. We must never meet again until our son is grown, you have to hide away and promise not to come back here or reach out to me until his birth, I will contact you when it is safe."

Sally's face flashed through an array of emotions before settling on sad, she had lost enough people in her life, she didn't want to lose her lover and son as well. She gripped onto his other had and bowed her head, contemplating on informing him about her repetitive nightmares and how they'd gotten worse since they interacted.

"Your brothers, I- I've had nightmares about them, they torture our son different way in each of them, I thought nothing of it at first but, but now I can't risk his life for...this."

Poseidon looked at her in shock, having expected at least a little fight over 'how selfish he was to put her through this' yet here was the woman he loved, kneeling beside him and ready to sacrifice everything for their unborn child's safety. 

As he stared at her, the sea god came to realise he truly had fallen in love with Sally Jackson, and, leaving her would be harder than witnessing the Trojan War. He had never felt the loss of a loved one, after all gods lived forever and loved no one except themselves, yet here he was, wishing to be a mortal and experience such mundane events just to be closer to her.

Sally felt a sudden weight around her neck and looked down to see a gorgeous necklace made of silver, its centerpiece being a blue seashell with a trident imprint.

"Hold onto it and think about me if you ever need me, I'm always here, my love," he hugged her closer and slowly dissolved away, watching as she sobbed into the sand, holding onto air and cursing the mere existence of the gods. Get up Sally, he's not coming back, he probably never will, get your shit together, you have a lot of explaining and planning to do young lady.

It had been a month since he left her on that wretched beach, but Sally couldn’t quite get over Poseidon. 

The usually cheerful woman was down in the dumps, the daily morning sickness not making it better, she presumed the child would mature faster due to being part god, and she frankly couldn't wait to have her little Percy with her.

“What if he looks like his father?”

The question made her smile as she leaned against a wall.

“...then I'll love him as unconditionally as I did his father.”

A/N: I’ll come back and edit this at some point. 

[gumnut-logic]

Mosaic Beach

It has taken me since Thursday morning (it is now Saturday night) to write this goes-nowhere-piece-of-fluff. I had a low level migraine Wednesday night and felt awful Thursday morning, so the first 850 odd words are me visualising being in a better place other than outside my daughter’s school. Then Scott had something to say and promptly ate my fic. But then at least he was thinking about Virgil.

Also, Gordon is evil.

As always, many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @scribbles97​ and @janetm74​ for the read throughs and support. You guys are amazing to me :D

I hope you enjoy this totally lazy fic ::hugs you all::

-o-o-o-

It was a lazy day.

Virgil suspected John, who had been kicked off Five the day before, had Eos routing all but the most dire situations to local authorities whether Scott authorised it or not.

There were days where Virgil wondered if Scott was really in charge, since John had so much ultimate say.

But that thought was for another day. He was tired and it was likely going to be a day off - please let it be a day off - and he was going to find a corner of the Island to sit alone and scribble in his sketchbook.

He ended up on Mosaic Beach, a personal favourite on the edge of the caldera. Gordon had mentioned it the day before regarding the quality of flotsam available after the last storm and Virgil thought he would see what he could find.

It was overshadowed by an ancient pokey tree brilliant in red blossom and the sand here was a mass of black and white swirls as the coral detritus fought the eroded igneous rocks – the reason they had given it its name. Gordon was right - there was all sorts of things tossed up the sand and Virgil spent the first half hour wandering along the strip of sea wrack picking up shells and whatever caught his eye.

One of the shells appeared determined to return to the ocean and it was with a small smile that he picked up the tiny hermit crab and watched it curl up into its shell.

Holding it gently in his palm, he sought the shade of the giant tree and sat down on the sand in its shadow. Here the breeze was gentle, the sand cool and, leaning back against a rock, he set the little crab down on a smooth patch of sand, along with his small hoard of shells and let it scamper across the little landscape that resulted.

Sketchbook out, he spent the next few minutes sketching the crab madly as it moved about. It shifted angle at random and he found himself increasingly switching from real life to a character sketch. A little personality sprouted from the page that reflected the little crab’s determination.

Ever aware of the crab’s needs above his own, he sketched fast, took a few photos and then gathered the little creature in his hands once more. He trotted down to the rock pools at the edge of the beach and found a spot he felt the crab would be happy.

Crouching down, he watched it scamper into the water.

His lips curved into a smile.

Gordon would know what species it was, where it lived and how to best care for it. Virgil was pretty sure he knew what type it was. Mel was pedantic about crabs and had given them a list of ‘these are endangered, tell me if you see them, kill one and I will kill you’. Fortunately or unfortunately, it wasn’t a long list, so Virgil had memorised it. This little guy...he should be happy here.

The crab found some weed and promptly hid under it.

The rockpool drew Virgil’s eye a little longer before he finally stood up and let the breeze cool his face. A sigh at the sun’s warmth and he wandered back to the shadow of the pokey tree and sat down again.

The little crab stared up at him from his sketchbook, spritely and determined.

Kind of like Gordon really, despite the claws.

That prompted a smile at the thought of his fish brother’s reaction to being compared to a crab.

He would squawk, but he would love it.

Virgil returned to sketching the shells and bits of coral he had collected. Rearranging them, repositioning for lighting. He picked one up and stared at the colours created by a little mollusc. He was ever amazed at what Mother Nature was capable of. Simple geometrics and chemical formulae made one of the world’s strongest and most beautiful substances in nacre. Another broken shell showed the rainbow of colour that he knew his paintbrush would never quite be able to capture, much less the pencil and stick of carbon he had with him today. He was left with a little snapshot from his phone...which was never quite the same either...and what his memory could provide.

Perhaps it was nature’s way of ensuring it was always the most beautiful.

He shifted to scribbling down the beachscape after that. It wasn’t the first time he had drawn this beach, but as with all beaches, it was different every day as the tide sculpted it.

His fingers grew more and more lazy, his lines wandering through more emotion than reality as the day drifted on. At some point, he ate the sandwich he had packed, quite happy to not care what time of day it was and refusing to look at his watch.

Eventually the sketchbook was set aside and he let himself just stare out at the ocean lagoon, eyes tracking the movement of the distant waves and the laps of the ripples against the shore.

And nature’s rhythms lulled him to sleep.

-o-o-o-

“Hey, big bro, you might want to drop by Mosaic Beach before the tide comes in.” Gordon waltzed past the desk Scott was sitting at with a smirk on his face.

“What?” Scott’s brain was still stuck in working out what the hell Simmonds meant by the ‘urgent memo’ that had interrupted his afternoon off.

“The snoring is scaring away all the wildlife.” With that Gordon grabbed a book off the shelf on the far side of the room and backtracked out the way he had come in...without another word.

Scott was left staring where his brother had been.

But then Gordon was worth ignoring some times.

He turned back to his display and continued to try and work out why Simmonds had ordered sixty plastic flamingoes and then memo’d him about it in a panic.

It took him a good few minutes more before throwing it back at Simmonds’ supervisor in Japan with a ‘concerned’ note.

What did Tracy Industries need with sixty plastic flamingoes?

He shook his head and forced himself to stand up and not invest any more in any comms from the business. Today was hopefully his day off and he refused to fall into the trap of losing himself in all the things that required attention.

All the things.

He paused mid rise.

But no. No! Vacation day. He forced himself away from the desk and out onto the balcony.

It was a beautiful out here. The afternoon sun was blazing in a brilliant blue sky without a single cloud. The sea was murmuring far below. It was an artist’s dream.

He blinked as certain Gordon utterings connected neurons together.

A frown. “Gordon!”

No answer.

Another frown and he strode back inside, following the recent tracks of his fish brother down to the kitchen.

Scott found him reading at the table, a phone that was most definitely not his in one hand and the book in his other.

There were lots of photos of crabs.

“What are you doing?”

“Confirming the identification of a crab.”

“Why?”

“Virg found one down on Mosaic Beach and I wanna make sure it is what I think it was so I can report it to Mel.”

The dots that had been connecting earlier fused into a solid line with an arrow pointing directly at Gordon. “And where is Virgil?”

“Snoozing on the beach.”

“And why do you have his phone?”

“Because his drawings were excellent, but I needed a colour shot.”

“Gordon!”

His brother didn’t even look up. “What?” But then he blinked and frowned at Scott. “He’s fine. Well above the high tide line.” A glance down at the book again. “There, that’s it. Oooh, Mel is going to be so excited.”

Scott glared at Gordon for a whole second longer before storming over and snatching the phone out of his hands. Without another word, he strode out of the kitchen and took the path that would lead him down to the reported beach.

Younger brothers were hard work.

The little beach wasn’t the closest on the Island. Probably one of the reasons Virgil chose it to get away from pesky younger brothers. Trust Gordon to find him anyway.

He fingered Virgil’s phone in his hand as he walked. The green leather case was embossed with an elaborate dragon design.

Looking at it, all he could really feel was fondness.

He must be tired. Grandma was right. He needed a day off.

Easier said than done. It wasn’t like he could park himself on a beach and fall asleep.

He grunted as he stepped over some rocks to start the climb down to the little cove. The path was thin and wove amongst several pōhutukawa trees – or pokey trees as Alan called them, their dark green leaves adorned with puffs of red blossom. Birds darted between them squawking at each other. That combined with the surf in the distance and the breeze rattling palm trees, it wasn’t the quietest of places.

Nevertheless, he found his brother sprawled against a rock under the largest pokey tree at the edge of the beach, snoring his head off.

Definitely noisy.

Virgil was dressed in an old pair of work shorts and a t-shirt with a hole in it. Both sported spatters of paint and clearly showed how relaxed his brother was trying to be.

Beside him on a rock, carefully placed, no doubt by Gordon, the brat, was a sketchbook and a box of drawing tools. Virgil’s artist backpack lay folded up supporting his head - again likely Gordon.

Virgil snorted and curled up just a little more against the rock.

Gordon was a shit, but he was a kind one. Virgil slept like the dead and would likely need one of those waves off in the distance to wash over him if he was going to wake up before he wanted to.

Staring a moment longer, Scott sighed, gave up and sat down beside his brother. He dropped the phone onto the sketchbook and looked out at the beach.

Virgil continued to snore.

His biggest little brother had always snored. Scott had cornered him and got him tested for a variety of sleep issues, but he was fine. Just loud.

The terrible two used to make a point of pointing it out as much as possible. But that was before the hydrofoil accident.

Gordon didn’t know it, but due to his injuries, he now snored, too.

The ribbing about snoring in the Tracy household had dropped to a minimum since, Gordon the only unknowing ribber.

But Virgil remained the major noise maker and the brothers worshipped the soundproofing in the villa.

Regardless of the racket, Scott did find it strangely quiet out here. Sitting on the sand with nothing to do was oddly relaxing. Of course, he wasn’t really one to do nothing and Virgil’s sketchbook was right there. Gordon had obviously already stuck his nose into it and Scott was pretty sure Virgil wouldn’t mind if he took a peek.

Would he?

Lifting the phone off the book, Scott carefully picked it up and nestled it in his lap...ever, ever so careful. Okay, so he had some respect and not a little fear of damaging Virgil’s artwork.

The pages were thick and stiff and likely designed to support wet media as much as dry. Most of the work in it was pencil, however, maybe some charcoal? The darks were so deep in some that they had to be.

But Scott was no artist and really only had eyes for the content.

The first page found him looking at himself. Virgil had obviously either captured Scott’s likeness on the sly or drawn from a photo or holoprojection. His drawing stared up at him in almost all three dimensions. The expression on his graphite face was thoughtful, almost wistful. He could see his rendered self was thinking or planning and totally distracted...which was likely why he had no clue his brother had captured this shot.

But the artistic strokes were strong and sure, simple in their complexity.

Scott blinked, moved that his brother was so talented and capable.

Though he really shouldn’t be surprised.

Turning the page, he discovered their grandmother.

He had to smile. The concentration on Grandma’s face was almost comical. A bowl and a recipe book sat in front of her and the very tip of her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth as she frowned at whatever she was reading.

There was a touch of caricature in the drawing, a little exaggeration, but done with love and fondness, not mockingly. His grandmother was beautiful.

Scott swallowed and turned the page to find several detailed scribbles. They looked like pieces of machinery and the pages had notes written down the sides.

It was a spark moment. He knew Virgil well enough for that. One of those times when his thoughts all came together and saw him running naked out of the shower to grab whatever he could find and get it written down.

Several major equipment improvements had occurred exactly this way. It appeared that at some point, this sketchbook had been the nearest note book and had borne the brunt.

He stared at the diagrams, doing his best to work out exactly what they were. Sharp notation, numbers, that had to be the backend of a pod. It clicked. This was part of the pod assembly redesign from the previous year. Virgil had come to him with some major improvements, including a pod body redesign. What followed had been a massive overhaul of all the ‘birds’ assembly systems and a whole new set up, including colour changes according to which Thunderbird housed which pod. Virgil and Brains had been buzzing for weeks.

And it was possible it had all started here on this piece of paper. Now he could see the scribbled down inner workings of the assembly mechanism and the shape on the second page was a worked and reworked pod shell.

He glanced over at his brother who was still snoring peacefully. Virgil was amazing. Scott could not have been prouder of what his little brother had achieved. Yet Virgil never really boasted or bragged or even highlighted what he had done. He was just there. Always there, one step behind him ready to help.

He must be really tired because now he was getting emotional. There had been a few times in the last couple of years where he had come close to losing Virgil. He hadn’t, but there had been nightmares and many a night where he had spent reassuring himself that his biggest brother was still with him.

And yes, he could stand outside his brother’s bedroom door and listen to him snore.

It gave him comfort.

Gordon had caught him once.

That had been a heartbreaking moment.

Because his fish brother hadn’t said a thing, just reached up, squeezed his shoulder, dropped his forehead against Scott’s arm and just stood there for a solid moment. Another gentle squeeze and he left, not even looking up at Scott before he was gone.

It said more than any words.

Scott sighed and turned the page...only to come face to face with Gordon again. Though this time the joy in their fish brother’s eyes was lighting up the page. He was grinning at a shell and there was a speech bubble - ‘Virgil, come and see this!’

Scott had to smile. Gordon was notorious for sharing his beach discoveries. Virgil was usually the target because at least he knew a little bit about their little brother’s fascinations. Scott loved to see Gordon happy, but honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference between one shell or another. He tried. He honestly did, but Virgil had the patience of a saint and was much more engaging.

Scott loved to watch the two of them instead.

And yes, he saw Virgil sneak things into his pockets. Usually shells, but occasionally rocks and bits of coral. Those finds made their way back to Virgil’s studio and there was a whole corner devoted to marine still life.

Which was why it was no surprise when the next three pages of sketchbook turned out to be exactly that. A curly shell, a pile of cockle shells - Scott knew those at least - they were good for fishing. The third page had a plan for a reef painting. It had scribbled notes, much like the pod redesign pages, but this was based around a sketched layout. Scott frowned at it...it was vaguely familiar. He would have to ask Virgil about it when he woke.

The next two pages sported today’s efforts. The same beach he was sitting on emerged from the paper, along with some sketches of a crab. The first few were realistic, but the last one had the little hermit crab with an IR symbol on its side and one of Dad’s old uniform hats perched on top of its shell. It bore a sash that resembled Virgil’s despite the lack of green colour and one of its claws was bigger than the other in a very exo-suit-like way.

That had Scott grinning. This was no doubt the reason why Gordon had run for the crab book. Mel, in her position of Director of the Kermadec Expedition south of them on Raoul Island, was very particular about the endemic crabs on all the islands in the area.

He wondered what she would think of them inducting crabs into IR.

He wondered what she was doing today and if she might be available later for a nice evening together.

That thought was very distracting and had nothing to do with crab identification at all.

Virgil snorted, rolled over off his backpack and face first into the sand.

Scott startled, fully expecting a woken bear of a brother to surface from that.

But Virgil just kept snoring, now snorting sand as well.

He placed the sketchbook down, scrambled around his brother and gently shoved the folded backpack under his head again.

His fingertips brushed sand off Virgil’s face.

And he found himself sitting beside his brother again.

Why was he out here?

Because Gordon was evil and dangled the concept of Virgil drowning in the tide simply to aggravate him enough to do exactly what he did.

Gordon was a shit.

But a good one.

Another sigh and he lay back against the rocks and got comfortable, because, let’s face it, he wasn’t going back up to the villa without Virgil. His brother was safe, sure, but walking off and leaving him to the elements ran against his grain.

And Gordon knew it.

He would throttle, and possibly hug, his fish brother later.

Besides, it was nice out here, taking a moment to just be.

Virgil would approve.

Virgil would fake being asleep just to get him to do it.

Scott’s eyes darted to his now softly snoring brother, a sudden suspicion at the forefront of his thoughts. He would put it past either of Virgil or Gordon’s conniving ways to conspire to get him out here.

Virgil was drooling a wet patch onto his backpack.

Ugh.

Well, maybe not.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid.

Perhaps he just needed to relax.

Relax.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. Kayo was good at meditation. So was Gordon. Virgil did some connecting with nature thing that seemed to work for him.

Exhibit A snorted as if in agreement.

He could try.

Out of all the sounds he could hear, only one really held his attention.

That same soft snoring. No waves or wind or birds squawking brought him any kind of comfort.

The sound of his brother breathing evenly beside him, safe and sound, was the most beautiful sound in the world.

What that said about him...well, he didn’t care right now. He was tired and worn out. Maybe Gordon was right. Maybe this is what he needed. He should care, should be annoyed, but the rhythm was lulling and, god, he was so tired.

So goddamned tired.

Virgil kept breathing and Scott followed him into sleep.

-o-o-o-

Hidden in the foliage of the grove of pokey trees behind his two brothers, Gordon just smiled.

-o-o-o-

[slater-later]

I Want to Watch You Grow

Brian Kelly x Trans Masc Reader

Read it here on AO3 if you would like!

- This is a Brian Kelly x Trans Man reader fan fic. This conronicles your long term relationship with Brian and your development with yourself. Your body, and transition as a transman.

- I hope everyone enjoys this. Finds space within themselves and their relationship with the world. It’s okay to be trans, being trans is beautiful. it’s a difficult, glorious journey that is far more of a beginning then an end. Living happy life, being proud of yourself and your body.

- The fic is long, about 12 pages. So please, soak it in, and I wish you the happiest day!

The two of you had been dating for some time. You had met at a small high school party. A good group of friends coming together around a Summer bonfire, slipping your feet out from the well worn sandals and wiggling them infront of a fire. The soles of your feet toasted, turning them around to be goldened on both sides. You held a long metal skewer with two plump marshmallows on the end, rotating it around as you warmed it to a golden ball of glory.

It was sweet, being able to spend time with old friends and make some new. Your friend Ronnie had invited the skater kids from school to join you. He had bonded with them over their mutual love for rock and rap music. It made sense, they both loved Public Enemy. Blasting ‘We Got the Power’ out of their car radios whenever they had a chance. 

You enjoyed it, they threw out some good rhymes and it was a battle cry for your youth. You generation. You couldn’t help but bob your head to the music and belt along.

It was towards the end of the night when you two met. Brian had showed up late, hair slicked with a heavy line of sweat. A shirt quickly shoved into his pants, trying to clean up for his group of friends after a long day of skating.

He had skipped out of work that day- well, really, the restaurant was slow so there wasn’t much need for two busboys. He had spent the rest of his afternoon and late into the stary night, skating at the skatepark. The street lights clicked on and it had made it hard for him to see the clear edges of the ramps. It was time to turn in and get a bite to eat. Putting aside the new trick he caught from someone else. Trying to nail it. 

If he knew it could be done, then he could. He just needed enough time and perseverance to figure it out.

With skating, the possibilities were endless. It was his place to let go of life’s worries and focus on something where had complete control. The complete right to be, what and who he is, with no to tell him otherwise. Skating was like a lifeblood for him, his way of life.

His boundless universe.

He came jogging in, skateboard in hand as he approached the group huddled around the warm fire. 

The trees swayed, creaking under the age and weight of their own majesty with a long gust of wind. It was dark, the hum of Summer turning to a deep pitch of haze. Black rolling in, only to be illuminated by the glaze of starfull and a half crescent moon. The forest was thick, lulled by the hum of heated crickets and hushed by the cool breeze of night. Smoke pooling from the warm fire, whisping and licking up the sky with powerful might. Your toes curled, seeking a gentle relief from its delightful burning flame.

They were roasted and baked. You tucked them into the ground, shifting your heals to push back the brush and find a damp, cool, interior.

Brian waved, throwing an arm up to welcome everyone. A boy buzzed in the background, rolling a hit out of a cheaply made bong. Coughing as he blew out his lungs. Stoned till’ the cows come home.

“Hey guys! Sorry I’m late, it uh, took me a while to find you guys,” He smiled, strolling on into the circle and making his way over to Yabbo. Giving him a high five and saying hello to Buddy. 

You popped your marshmallow onto a graham cracker and some chocolate. You munched on your treat, washing it down with a sip of beer.

You watched Brian that night, catching his eyes as he chatted with Buddy over some trick he had been captivated by. Transfixed on trying to nail, to, gleam the cube. 

He noticed, his shit stain smirk would appear even in mid sentence. Hands flailing out, gesturing and expressing his exasperation on some wild tangent he was on about skating. About life. About love. It was amusing to watch him, loud and audacious as he was. He could even make Buddy loud, who was normally a quiet and reserved guy. Get him chuckling about some silly joke he made, and pairing it with an audacious face. Hands whipped out, a cross between a dragon and a gorilla.

You had finished off your second beer, musing with a friend about the stars as you gazed. Heads turned up, pondering the wide expanse of space. Its’ glorious bounds, its beauty, its’ wonder.

It put things in perspective for you. Not in a scary way, but in a comforting one. That sometimes, our emotions can feel massive. And they can be! But they also fall away, soothe and ease, as we realize, this shall pass. As all things. Even life. And so, what we must work towards is enjoying it. Like moments like these- feet kicked up on a stump, back eased into a lawn chair with a good beer in hand, spending time with friends. The summer breeze cooling your warm skin, still tanned and glowing from a long day spent outside. Walking, running, and spending time with those that mattered to you. You can’t steal back time, but instead, enjoy it.

Brian tapped Buddy’s shoulder, gesturing for him to shift over as he stood up. Slicking to the outside of the circle, making his way over.

He stopped at the bag of mellows, nabbing two and popping one in his mouth. Munching on its sugary goodness as he finished the trip. Sliding down and popping on the ground, criss-cross-apple-sauce style.

You picked your chin up from the stars, turning your head towards him, “Hey.”

“Hey,” He smiled tiredly, softly. It had grown late and the group had died down, calming and chatting amongst themselves. “So, I uh, don’t think I caught your name,” He mused, chuckling with an anxious delight. He had caught your fancy and talking to attractive people always made his insides flutter.

“It’s Y/N, what’s yours?” You smiled, letting out a tiny yawn, hand hovering over your mouth.

And on command, it was his turn. “Briannn.” He said, pushing through his wide open mouth, eyes turning to closed slits. Watering. 

“Jesus, I’m beat,” He muttered, whipping his eyes.

“You too?” You couldn’t stop, the two of you speaking through widely stretched mouths, yawning and releasing the tired souls of your body out into the air. Like ghosts being exercised. 

“Yeah!” He squeaked, putting his hand over his mouth. This time his mouth reaching out farther. As if a shark could unhinge its massive jaw.

Slowly, both of yours bodies cooled down. Chatted about the quiet, peaceful sounds of the forest. How the night made your feel alive, at ease within your own body. It was easy talking with such a nice man, cracking soft jokes and poking fun at the world. The politicians, the fat cats, and parents. Some stupid shit a drunk girl did at school, how the one guy on the football team fucked the head swimmer and stirred drama in the theatre group. He had been dating Jared, but it all fell for shit when he saw Sam in those swim trunks.

You both agreed, he looked mighty fine in the spandex speedo. And Tom did too, especially when he found out how kind he was.

“So who do you think is the biggest class clown? Don or Vinny?” You mused, shifting your weight in your seat. Turning towards him.

“Ahhh, I’m not so sure. Vinny is my man, but I really like Tabitha-”

“That bitch?” You shot, clicking your tongue. “She fucking stole $20 out of my backpack, fuck her!”

His eyebrows knitted, looking disappointed. “Yeahhh, she ain’t very nice. I disagree with you there,” He looked at the blaze, shaking his head. “But it’s not a ‘frienship’ competition. I give her props pouring that bottle of stinky slick on that jerk in Ceramics. That one that makes all those gross racist comments in school.” Fuck him for his piece of shit mind. There was no reason to be like that.

“-Ugh!” Your eyes rolled, shaking your head, “I know, I fucking hate him. He’s a piece of shit,” Internally you groaned, thinking of his disgusting face.

“For that, I respect her. The fool won’t change his mind and he needs to learn that he can’t do shit like that. It’s not like he’ll listen, I’ve tried,” He popped a mellow into his mouth, chewing. “She got 3 days of suspension for that. It was pretty ballsy,” Shitting on racist was both funny and satisfying. 

“What-? Why did she get that-?”

He shrugged, looking amazed, “I don’t know. It’s fucked up, that’s school for ya. It’s not right.”

You shook your head disgusted. If only they would understand, listen. “Ok, so, who has your favorite comedy?

“-Sam,” He smiled, poking a branch into the fire.

You watched him stir up the flame, picking at a log and turning it over. 

“Same, he’s really nice. He’s quiet but he has a smart tongue on him,” Slowly the fire grew. Emboldened by the new life, “Tom’s really lucky.”

Brian shot you a look, teeth flashing in a grin, “Cuz Jared’s so hot?”

You shot up in your seat, pushing yourself closer to him- “Okay though, right?!” Brian burst out laughing, head thrown back as he boomed. 

You waved your hands up into the air, desperately. “He has those pecs! Those thick arms! I just wanna be hugged by him!” He was a big tall teddy bear! A muscular one too! Who doesn’t love a big teddy bear?!

“I know, I know!” He slapped his knee, face red and warm, and it wasn’t from the booze. “He’s cute! He’s really cute!” He laughed, smiling through his big open mouth.

The two of you talked for the rest of the night, making another round of smores and sipping on the last of your cold beer. It was easy, talking to him. You found a kind of warm comfort and acceptance by such a free soul. By someone who really just wanted to be seen and heard, and loved for who he was.

*****

That night would bloom into many others. A few months you spent together, as friends, and the others, as lovers. You slowly got to know each other over time progressed. Eventually, love bloomed. Infatuation took to desire, day dreaming about the next time you’d see him. Hand propping your chin, staring off into a whiteboard filled with math equations as the teacher droned on. The last week of school was a buzzkill, bittersweet, and painfully long. 

You wanted it to end. For it to be Summer, to be scott-free and without responsibilities. But that also brought changes and your second stage of life was on the horizon.

****

The time came and both of you decided to take a year off from college. Work and save up some money. Spend time together as much you can. 

You planned on going away to school a few hours away. Brian hadn’t quite decided, but it looked to be the same. 

Both of you would attend the same school and it would work out well. Eventually, you both got through the next four years with your brains intact for the better. He majored in music production with a minor in entrepreneurship. He wanted to do something in music, start his own band and maybe build his own label. You majored in _____ and loved it. And your relationship had lasted, strengthened. Finding a quiet peace and home in one another. A thing you quietly wished for in your heart and didn’t know you needed until you found it.

The freedom to be yourself with another. One who would love and accept you, regardless of the circumstances and the changes.

But it didn’t always make it easy. You had been having feelings about your body. Ones that you didn’t quite like and found increasingly frustrating to have. To not have the words, the names, to understand and express how you felt.

You already knew you weren’t straight. That had long been established to yourself and to Brian’s knowledge. He didn’t care- well, that wasn’t quite the right way to put it. He was supportive of your queerness and actually encouraged it. You both were fluid as a snake- bodies and gender thrown right out of the door. What mattered was the person, the attraction, and the two of you- had a lot of that for one another.

He also wasn’t one to put up many questions about the way you dressed. Switching out fem for? Masculine? He was game. He liked your style, even sowed on some patches on your jacket when he asked. Though as time wore on, catching the way you shield away from your chest… Your feelings about your body… He noticed. 

“Hey babe?” He slid into the frame of the doorway, hand grasping the side of the wood as he leaned in. Watching you do your hair, clothed, and fixing your hair.

“Yeah? What’s up?” You looked at him through the mirror, running a comb through your head. “Is my coffee ready?”

“Yeah, it’s on the kitchen table. With your toast,” He walked in, looking quiet. Tentative. “Can I talk to you about something?”

You turned, “Yeahhhh…” Your voice fluttered, knowing that face he makes. It made you uneasy. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“Are you… alright? You’ve been distant lately, like somethings on your mind,” He paused, looking down. Guilty, “Did I do something wrong? Are we alright?” He leaned his back against the wall, thumbs hooked into his jean pockets. Glancing up at you.

You set down the brush, turning, “Yeah,” You coed softly. Tenderly to the sweet man, “We’re okay, I’m just going through some stuff,” It was easier to put that into words. You needed time to figure things out, to share how you felt. You didn’t even have them for yourself, at least not clearly.

You hoped time would reveal itself, help your understand and work through what you were feeling.

And you didn’t know how it would change you. Or, for the matter, Brian. Your relationship with him.

He gestured to you, beat, “Do you.. Wanna talk about it?”

It fell on silence, unsure.

“Yes… but not now. I need some time,” You stepped, drawing his eyes.

“Like… how long?” It was bugging him, an itch he can’t scratch. A problem he saw, a frustration he can’t touch.

It was yours, and one that effected him. He wanted you happy and content.

To ease your pain.

“I’m not sure,” You slipped a hand into his and locked fingers together. Drawing his hand up and lined your hips with his. Brian’s other slip around your waist, pulling you close. “You’re going to have to wait, to trust me until I’m ready to talk about it. But I do love you- and it’s not because of you,” You pressed your lips to his, slowly lifting them away. “Or something you’ve done. We’re okay.”

“Alright, I just-” He looked into your eyes, vulnerable. “I want you to be happy, no matter what. Whatever it is.”

“And I thank you for that, I really do. I appreciate it,” Another press, lips locked, tongues twisting for a moment. 

“Oh? Is someone?” 

You laughed, caught red-handed, “Yeah, a bit.” You mused.

****

And for a while, it was left like that. You ordered yourself a proper binder and he was properly happy for you, seeing you excited to go and slip it on as soon as it came in the mail. You checked yourself out in the mirror, beaming as you found a sense of newfound confidence and comfort in your appearance. Your body.

He liked the way you smelled after you changed deodorants. You smelled rich and musky, one that you both adored. For him, it was intoxicating. Even picked up your armpit in bed as you yelped, his head buried in your pit to get a good whiff of your scent. Both of you sent laughing and shouting and you play fought in bed, beating back the monster you so endearingly loved.

“Fucking hell Brian!! Give me my arm back!”

“No! Never!” He bellowed, hand tightening around your wrist, pinning it against the wall as your feet kicked against him. He loved it, making you mad and crazy at the same time.

Tickling was your enemy! One that he used and abused, to get you laughing and squirming as he tied his body around yes. Pressing kisses to your cheek like a woodpecker.

****

Eventually, you found answers. The internet helped and a good stack of books about gender. It worked to ease your feelings about your body and the amount of envy you had for the masculine. It was difficult at first, being able to sort through attraction and gender envy at the same time. Slowly, you found answers. A confirmation of your feelings and way of life. The amount of euphoria you received when the simple stranger called you ‘man’ or ‘sir’ felt glorious. Elating and at home with yourself in a way that felt right. A homecoming.

You started to approach the subject with Brian. The two of you were friends with trans people, but it still felt fresh. Weird, and confusing to go through yourself. Being trans still didn’t give you cut and dry answers, it was a journey. A grey area because, even through they had gone through that journey, it was still personal. You had to find answers for yourself and the world is a weird, wild place.

But, it didn’t mean you were something else. Or strange for that matter- you were you, and that’s what mattered. You were exploring.

You two had been laying in bed. A quiet Saturday day spent outside, running errands and going to the farmers market to buy fresh produce and bread. It was lovely and peaceful. You guys had turned into bed early, curled under a soft comforter as you sprawled out in bed. The sun had set.

“Hey,” You whispered, dusting a piece of long hair out of his face. He was turned towards you, a fit of blankets wrapped around him as his body cupped towards yours. 

“Hey,” He yawned, eyes fluttering in sleepiness.

You dusted a finger along his jaw, his chest slowly rising and falling. A ham all baked like a warm potato. “Can we talk?”

He shifted his head closer to your touch, liking the way you slowly stroked his skin. “Yeah, what’s up?” He yawned.

“I’ve been thinking, for a while now. That I might be trans,” You paused, wanting to release the next few words from your brain. “I think I am.”

“Oh?” He shifted up, sitting up now and trying to wake up his brain. Serious conversation time. “Really?” His voice was kind, asking for confirmation.

You nodded, “Yes.”

“As in nonbinary or trans masc?” He ran a hand through his hair, swooping the fluff back. Pulling himself together.

You laughed, feeling the butterflies swarm in your stomach. “Trans masculine.”

“Okay,” he smiled, nodding. Taking it in. “So uh, what do you want to do? If anything at all?”

“Honey-” You pestered, giving him a look.

“I’m asking! That’s up to you!” He was ginger, trying not to pry but dying inside. The questions!

“Clothes, that’s for one thing.”

“You’re already wearing my boxers- we gotta get you more of those.”

You had been stealing them from him. They were comfy, among other things. You couldn’t help but crack a guilty smile. He had mentioned it before when he had ran out, pissed because he hated wearing dirty ones.

“And shirts, and some good cuffed jeans-” You added.

“Dickie’s has those, we can thrift you Carhart’s from Goodwill.”

You paused, holding your breath. Holding onto the next few words, as if they couldn’t be taken back. Releasing them into the world, “And transitioning. I think I want to do that too.” 

He reached for your hand, his thumb stroking your palm as the two of you laid in bed. Him looking down at you as your sprawled out, your elbow propping yourself up. “Okay, if that’s what you want, I support you. I want that too,” He pulled up your hand and pressed his lips to them softly. Firmly intertwining his fingers with yours, squeezing them tightly. Securely.

“Do you want to go by different pronouns? A name?”

“Yes, I want to be named Y/N,” You smiled, feeling his hands pull you in.  Draw around you in a deep hug as he slid down to your level, comforting and embracing you. “I want to go by he/him pronouns.” You chuckled against his skin, head buried into the crook of his neck.

“Well hello my Prince, I’m so glad to meet you Y/N,” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, smiling through it as your heart brust. Crying in relief, in tears of joy and relief.

“You’re not mad?” You squeaked, tears rolling down your cheek.

“Baby~” He purred, pulling back, to look into your eyes. “Of course not, I want you to be happy. You’re precious to me,” He said, soothing you. “Is this what’s been bothering you?”

You nodded.

“I’ve been… wondering about it,” He mused. “I kinda figured it out after you bought your binder and started shaving your face. You barely had peach fuz but you looked so happy… so, much more bright that day,” You had slowly been trying things out. Listening to your body and how you felt. Changing your style, presenting more masculine. You even bought clothes from the men’s section and started to let go using gender specific pronouns for yourself. To ease the pain of dysphoria while you figured out feelings. Your therapist helped. 

“But I’ve been waiting until you tell me, that’s your stuff,” He wiped your chin, brushing off the stream of tears. “I know you’d tell me eventually, whatever your answer was- I want to support you. I chose that long ago, I stand by that.” He smiled, adding, “And if things change in the future, that’s okay too. Gender and bodies are a tricky thing.”

There was so many choices- my so options- in how trans people choose to express themselves. All of them are valid, it’s what makes you happy is the most important thing. What aligns with yourself.

“Thank you,” You sniffled, peaking out a smile. You were happy, and now tired, and just wanted to curl up in bed. The rush of emotions flooding your system, the bent of stress and relief washing over your system. Draining you. 

You wanted to feel this moment in its security, its acceptance. “That means a lot to me Brian.”

“Of course- and for what it matters-” He leaned into your ear, whispering, “I think you make a handsome man. And will continue too.” 

“It doesn’t change things- between us?”

He shrugged, unfazed, “I don’t think so. I’m attracted to you and I like men so-” Another quizzical look, “I don’t see how it would change things in that department. I think I need to know more but I don’t think so.”

You raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“I want to read more about it so I can help you. I know it can be hard for trans people to get the resources they need to transition. We’re going to both go through this and I want to help you. -If that’s what you want, of course.”

“Oh! Okay,” you nodded. You slid down together, laying in each others arms. Curled underneath the seats, your tears dried up. Heart shining. “I want that, your help. I fucking hate calling the doctors office.”

He laughed, “I know! I know!” You would get stressed, talking on the phone could be weird sometimes. It made you anxious.

You tucked your head into his chest, hearing it beat with the life you held so closely. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close. “Thank you Bri, for everything.”

“Of course Y/N,” He spoke softly, warm. “I love you, you’re my everything.”

The two of you drifted off to sleep in bed, listening to the sound of Summer rain come in through the window. Drops slapping against the hard concrete, easing you into a deep slumber.

****

The two of you got along better after that. You were able to save up enough money to see a gender therapist. A general practice doctor that specialized in transgender health, giving you access to the hormone treatments you so desperately needed.

The changes came slow at first, the T being newly added to your system. Eventually, the body hair came in. Sprouting up your legs and turning thicker, darker, up your knees. Your body weight shifted, redistributing around your body with a healthy addition of exercise. Your jaw widened, spotting itself with facial hair which you so proudly grew. Cleaned up and trimmed, sculpting it to your desire. 

That was one of your favorite moments. When you asked Brian to show you how he shaved his face. He pulled out of his bag of clippers, helped you learn how to wash your face and spread shaving cream on your face. How to guide the razor against your skin, trimming the well grown facial hair.

“-Like this- you gotta go against the grain if you want it smooth,” You were both creamed up, with your hair clipped back. He had a headband pushing his strands back, keeping it from falling into his face.

“Okay,” You mumbled in front of the mirror, guiding the razor across your skin. Wincing when you nicked yourself and hoping you don’t do that again.

“It’ll get easier, trust me,” He assured, slicking the last bit of cream off of his clean face. He mostly kept himself clean shaven, though there was a time where he rocked a thin mustache. Even some musky stubble around his cheeks. Which you loved.

And so was your transition. 

In time, you qrew to love and enjoy your body even more. Seeing the face you so expected- and wished for- being reflected in the mirror. Muscles come in, adjusting your body shape to one that you desired.

Brian was very supportive. Even helped you find a good doctor for your top surgery. He pitched in money for your procedure, taking some extra hours as the store manager at the record shop where he worked. He was planning on taking it over from the owner in a few years. He had helped them expand into a second storefront. He was proud of it.

He drove you to your surgery, making sure you had everything prepared. Extra magazines, music, books, even your sketch pad and journal if you so wished it. You would sleep after your surgery in the hospital bed, groggy and tired from the boat load of meds and painkillers lulling you to a peaceful state. He wanted to make sure you were content, that you healed well and passed the time while you recovered. The tiny hospital tv having few channels to capture your attention. He ready to help you pass the time.

After your surgery, you couldn’t move your arms very much. At least not above your head. It would pull at your incisions, the area bruised and draining of fluids. He would tend to you, changing your bandages and helping you get things from the kitchen cupboards. Asking you to relax and let him take over- when you insisted on cooking dinner. That you felt fine, that the pain wasn’t too bad. Even though your chest ached, he didn’t want you to push yourself.

It was okay to lean on someone else, to let them tend to you at times in need.

He adored you and embraced the new found man you had become. He liked hearing you softly talk into his ear, listening to how your voice had dropped. Had changed, deepened, and thickened. It was an adventure for the both of you, one that you happily embraced and found a new home. In you, yourself, and each other.

He was proud to call you his boyfriend, his favorite man on Earth.