#that even deep deep in the darkest parts of the sea where there's barely any food and barely any oxygen

[dystopicjumpsuit]

The Plant Prowler of Pabu

A/N: I’m scared that Pabu is going to be toast after this week, so I wrote a little fluff to make myself feel better. Also, this is the first time I’ve been able to finish a fic in six weeks, so… yay me!

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader (GN)

Rating: T (but MDNI as always)

Wordcount: 2.1K

Warnings and tags: mild language; fluff; a kiss; spoilers for The Bad Batch season 3

Summary: Exploring the island during his first morning on Pabu, Crosshair encounters a mastermind of botanical crime: you.

Suggested Listening: 

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

Whoever said, “It’s darkest just before dawn” had clearly never woken up to go for a walk before sunrise. Even if Crosshair hadn’t had enhanced vision, it would have been easy for him to navigate his way down to the beach of Pabu in the dim half-light. Hunter had wordlessly watched him exit the Marauder, pretending to still be asleep, but Crosshair knew that his brother would have drawn his vibroblade in a flash if he’d even glanced sideways at Omega.

Crosshair didn’t exactly blame Hunter for his caution, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The squad had arrived on the idyllic island the previous day, and Crosshair was immediately swarmed by a horde of curious locals. With Hunter determined to keep Crosshair in sight at all times, there had been no escape from their onslaught of hospitality, and by the time the celebrations had died down, Crosshair had been clinging to the tattered threads of his patience and sanity.

It was a hell of a thing to go from barely speaking to anyone for months on end to suddenly being plunged into the midst of a vibrant and chaotic crowd of nosy spectators. He’d escaped to the Marauder at last and pretended to sleep, keenly aware of Hunter’s eyes on him. He’d spent enough time under the microscope in the past several months, though, and he was ready for some privacy.

And so it was that he found himself wandering down the empty terraced walkways of Pabu, making his way to the shoreline in the pale gloaming. He didn’t encounter a single soul as he walked—barring the ubiquitous moonyos that seemed to frolic across the island at all hours. Pabu was the sort of place that seemed too flawless to be real. Too flawless to last.

Not quite as flawless as it seems on the surface, he acknowledged as he turned down a path that snaked through one of the sections of the island that had yet to be rebuilt after the catastrophic sea surge he’d heard about countless times at the welcoming party the previous night. The buildings had been reduced to rubble, and judging by the weeds sprouting in the cracks of the walkway, the locals tended to avoid this particular part of the island.

Perfect.

The gentle breeze off the ocean was chilly, and he told himself it was the reason his hand trembled more than usual that morning. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets as he navigated the last few levels before he reached the beach. As he stepped onto the sand, a gust of wind buffeted against him. It was bracingly cold, and it smelled like salt and aquatic vegetation and wet earth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and focusing on the sensation.

When he opened his eyes, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision had him snapping his head to the side. He froze. A figure meandered slowly down the beach, sticking close to the bottom of the hill where the lush foliage grew thickly right up to the edge of the sand. He was certain you had spotted him, but you didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence.

He watched for a moment as you paused and stooped down to examine one of the plants, then carefully plucked a few bunches and laid them in the basket you carried. Bizarre. What the kriff was this person doing out here so early? Nothing innocent, that was for damned sure. Why would anyone sneak down to such an isolated stretch of the beach at this obscene hour if they didn’t have nefarious intent?

Aside from me, obviously.

He squinted slightly. Even with his enhanced eyesight, it was dark enough, and you were far enough away, that it was difficult to make out your features, but he was reasonably sure you hadn’t been at the party the night before. 

Hmph.

He turned and walked the opposite direction, away from the person who’d had the audacity to interrupt his solitude by getting to the beach first. Better not to get involved.

Crosshair took a different route the next morning, arriving at the beach just as the sun rose. As bad kriffing luck would have it, you were exiting the beach just as he arrived, and your paths inevitably intersected. He braced himself for a conversation, but you simply met his eyes and nodded quietly as you passed him.

He suppressed a sigh of relief. Stepping aside to make room for you to pass on the narrow trail, he couldn’t help noticing that your basket was filled with a variety of neat bundles of leaves and twigs. Odd, but your hobbies were none of his concern. Even if they did involve herb rustling and grand theft shrubbery.

He continued his path down to the shoreline and wandered along the water’s edge, staring out at the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see your solitary figure making its way up the steep slope and into Lower Pabu. He was now completely sure that you’d not been at the welcoming party, nor had he encountered you in the village. It wasn’t that surprising; after all, hundreds of people lived on the island, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry to meet them all—or any of them, if he were honest.

Of course, he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Wrecker had flatly refused to allow Crosshair to isolate himself, while the gregarious mayor Shep Hazard seemed equally dedicated to the twin causes of thrusting Crosshair into the community and plying him with as much fruit as he could eat in a lifetime. He was starting to feel a tiny surge of violence every time he saw a jogan fruit.

On the third day, Batcher woke up with Crosshair and scrambled out of the Marauder, bounding ahead of him down the ramp and then turning to wiggle her entire body in anticipation as he followed. He let the lurca hound pick the path that morning, not bothering to hide his thin smile at Batcher’s endless curiosity and enthusiasm. She crisscrossed the walkways incessantly, sniffing and exploring, chasing the moonyos playfully down the hill, investigating every nook and cranny of the village, and easily running five times the distance that Crosshair traveled on their way down to the water.

The beach was empty this morning, to Crosshair’s relief. At last, some peace and quiet. Or at least as quiet and peaceful as it could be with Batcher rocketing back and forth across the wet sand, grunting and huffing as she charged into the surf and back up to Crosshair, crouching into a bow as she tried to entice him to play with her. When he didn’t immediately comply, she took off chasing a flock of seabirds, scattering them into the air in a cacophony of indignant squawking.

She chased the birds down the beach, barking joyously as she splashed through the surf. When the hound disappeared around a bend in the shoreline, Crosshair sped up slightly, not wanting to risk Omega’s wrath if anything happened to her pet on his watch. As he rounded the bend, he was greeted with a most unexpected sight: Batcher was lying on her back on the sand, writhing with delight as you rubbed her belly.

Your basket was overturned, and all the neat little bundles of herbs were strewn across the sand. It wasn’t hard to deduce the instigator of such carnage. Batcher spotted Crosshair and immediately jumped up and shook the sand off herself before rushing to greet him.

“Down,” he said sternly as she jumped up and swiped at him with her massive paws.

She dropped obediently, and trotted along next to him as he approached you. You’d already begun picking up your fallen bundles of leaves, and he quickly bent to assist you.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“No harm done,” you replied, shaking a bit of loose sand out of the bundles before you dropped them into your basket. “They all get washed before I hang them up to dry anyway.”

“So you’re not just engaging in botanical heists for the adrenaline rush?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, it really gets the blood pumping,” you replied, deadpan. “My day just doesn’t feel complete without a little horticultural larceny.”

“I can see you like to live on the edge,” he said with a tiny smile. “The Plant Prowler of Pabu.”

“And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for a mysterious stranger and his meddling dog.”

He liked you. Damn it.

Crosshair didn’t see you for the next several days. He assumed you’d moved your criminal enterprise elsewhere on the island, and after the team returned from Barton IV, he didn’t feel the same need to escape the Marauder as he had previously. Still, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, and after an excruciatingly restless night, he slipped out of the ship not long before dawn and wandered aimlessly down the streets of Pabu until he found himself in the unstable section he’d discovered on the first day.

As he picked his way through the ruins, he spotted movement two terraces below, and he grinned. Forcing himself to walk casually so you didn’t suspect how pleased he was to see you, he sauntered down to your level, only to find you ripping weeds up from between the fragments of pavement with uncharacteristic abandon.

“What did those plants ever do to you?” he asked.

You must have spotted him before he arrived, because you didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice.

“Invasive species,” you replied. “I try not to over-forage, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

“And I thought your crimes only extended to vegetational theft,” he drawled. “I had no idea you’d escalated to floral murder and agricultural vigilantism.”

“The hero Pabu needs,” you said with a smile that had no business being as charming as it was, considering you were currently covered in a fine layer of dirt and assorted bits of leaves and twigs. “If this plant gets established on the island, we might never be able to eradicate it. It will outcompete the native plants and could cause significant disruptions to the ecosystem.”

“How altruistic of you,” he remarked drily.

“Not at all,” you laughed. “It also happens to be delicious.”

Crosshair stooped down and pulled one of the plants up by the roots, examining it closely. “It’s on sight, then.”

“Exactly. No mercy.”

As the first rays of the sun appeared on the distant horizon, you packed the large bundles of weeds into your basket, then stood and dusted your hands off on your trousers. You stretched a bit, clearly a little stiff from your labor. Impulsively, Crosshair spoke.

“Want to watch the sunrise with me?” You looked surprised at his offer, and he cleared his throat, looking awkwardly away. “Or do you turn into a meiloorun if you stay out past dawn?”

“Yes,” you said. “I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’d like to stay. No, I don’t turn into a meiloorun.”

You bit your lip and stared down at the bundle of weeds in your basket, poking at it ineffectually as you muttered something unintelligible under your breath. Stifling a laugh, Crosshair climbed up onto the crumbling half-wall of a destroyed structure and extended his hand to help you up after him. You scrambled up and sat down next to him, gazing out at the tranquil ocean as the sun began to paint the high clouds in brilliant shades of gold and pastel.

“Not a bad view, is it?” you asked quietly. 

“Definitely worth waking up early,” he replied, watching your face as the light caught on your cheekbones and reflected in your eyes.

Without making a conscious decision, he lifted his hand and brushed a little loose dirt off your cheek. His damned hand trembled, and he mentally cursed. You didn’t seem to notice the slight tremor, though—or if you did, you didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you turned your head slowly, grazing your lips across his fingertips as you met his eyes. It seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy to continue to trace the line of your jaw until his hand curled around the back of your head.

Your lips were soft and warm in the cool breeze, and you tasted like sea salt and dew and something he didn’t quite recognize. Something new. He liked it. You leaned into his kiss, and when at last it came to its natural conclusion, he drew in a shaky breath.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m Crosshair.”

---

Want more Crosshair? I have another Crosshair x Reader ficlet here!

Taglist:

@secondaryrealm @sev-on-kamino spicy-clones @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @merkitty49 @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @arcsimper5 @starrylothcat @clio3kantarella @cloneloverrrrr @goblininawig @ladytano420 @arctrooper69 @sunshinesdaydream @littlemissmanga @stunkbiggu @starqueensthings @marierg @idontgetanysleep @moonlightwarriorqueen @dudewhynotthis @sleepycreativewriter @tcwmatchmakingau @littlemissbshine @multi-fan-dom-madness @heavenseed76 @wizardofrozz @bobaprint @sweetcream-coldfoam @banksys-rat @skellymom @pickleprickle @trixie2023 @mythical-illustrator @dickarchivist @cw80831 @kimiheartblade @meredithroseg @flyiingsly @lightwise @swcowgal @reader6898 @cdblake1565 @epicy0n @starstofillmydream @msmeredithrose @totallyunidentified @eclec-tech @euphoriacafe @hipwell

[muraenide]

"You're absolutely sure?" Idia mumbles under his breath, one hand gripping tightly onto Jade's outstretched hand, the other still keeping a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the pier. He had thrown his clothes into a pile somewhere behind him, which were now folded neatly, courtesy of Jade, even in this form. It's dark out, no lights beside the clouded moon above them and the glow coming off Jade's tail and his own flaming hair. The water is so dark that Idia feels he might be jumping down into an abyss. His gaze flickers to Jade, and he takes a deep breath before stepping off the edge and into the water.

@stygia-n // Idia

"Since when have I lied to you?"

Jade was barely recognizable now. He feels comfortable, at long last, to be in the comfort of the sea, its waters lapping around his long, dark, and sleek body. His original form was twice as big as his human form and thrice as strong. His tail was a weapon that could slap the head of a man's shoulders if he so decides that it would serve as entertainment. Idia being in terribly close proximity usually signifies danger, as Jade was close enough to drag him to the seabed if he wished to drown him, but the Ignihyde Housewarden's clumsiness and trust in him made the mereel feel nothing but a tad bit endeared.

Idia was certainly no fool. Jade knows that Idia knows he wouldn't drown him (or couldn't, but the differences were scarce).

Because Jade was in love.

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon an hour ago. It's dark, save for the blinking lights of the city twinkling back at them in the distance. Jade had been patiently waiting for Idia to take his time, knowing that the water unnerves him. A part of Jade wonders if Idia would laugh if Jade ever told him the truth: that Jade, too, was afraid of the terrifying depths of the ocean, of his own home, that he'd done some things he wasn't sure would murder any good thoughts Idia had of him, especially the truth concerning his and Floyd's other siblings of the same clutch. After all, whatever atrocities he'd done, he did it for Floyd. Jade being unusually mature at a young age plagued his teachers. Back then, they thought it was unnatural for a six-year-old to behave as if he was all grown up, as if he was keeping some morbid secrets he never wanted anyone to know.

Who are you really, Jade Leech? Ortho asked him once, drawing a rare frown from the older Leech. Those gold and yellow eyes appeared to see right through him, something Jade didn't doubt he'd done many a time to other students whenever he used his Unique Magic. It feels discomforting to see through someone else and access their deepest and darkest secrets. He loathes the idea of himself being seen in the same way. But perhaps it wouldn't have disturbed him if it wasn't known that Jade has no soul. So what exactly is it that Ortho saw? I see, The younger Shroud said, you're quite confused yourself. But don't worry. As long as you're good to my brother, I'll keep this secret for you!

Jade can't help but wince every time he recalls that particular piece of memory. In all honesty, Ortho didn't need to threaten him. He couldn't do anything to harm Idia Shroud even if he tried without feeling his insides being ripped apart at the thought of Idia possibly being angry enough to declare them separated.

"It's okay. I'll catch you." He coos, in a voice so soft it was evidently reserved for only specific people. It didn't take long for Idia to leap into the water. Waves splashed on Jade's face, washing away any distractions that intruded on this otherwise romantic moment.

His arms were naturally around Idia's shoulders, and he moved his tail to wrap it around Idia's entire form, holding him close and nuzzling his neck, "From now on, whenever you fall, I'll catch you. So don't go where I can't follow."

[veinereastath]

waves of retrospection [Arthur Harrow one-shot]

It’s mostly a bit of psychological take on Harrow; Basically I don’t accept him as dead, so I’ve decided to do what I enjoy doing best and change canon to my own twisted desires, but also somehow leave the ending open to intepretation and choice. So have this small piece of 2204 words of his own retrospection at night by the sea.

Fandom: Moon Knight [2022]

Rating: nothing explicit at all, but there are some mentions of self-harm. You know, glass in shoes.

Summary: Ammit has been defeated once and for all, but Harrow is still alive - but he isn’t sure if that’s what he truly wants.

Characters: only Arthur Harrow and his mind, because I love psychological / philosophical mumbo jumbo.

Side note: English is not my first language so you can expect some mistakes.

_____________________________________________________________

    The rocks of the shore were dark, treacherous, full of little cracks and imperfections. Their edges were sharp, ready to inflict pain on any who would make any kind of mistake, the fail of judgement when stepping on them. Too careless feet would soon find themselves to be cut and bleeding, with the cold, salted water of the sea hitting the shore inflicting even more pain. Rubbing the salt on the wound gained a new, painfully real meaning.

    But the glass he had in his old, battered shoes for the past years made him accept the pain. He got used to it, and he understood its fundemental purpose – after all, it was a punishment he chose for himself, every single morning hiding it under the mundane action of touching the glass of water with his lips, allowing his throat, tired from preaching and intricate manipulation a bit of relief. His throat in exchange for his feet. For someone like him, who knew the value of properly executed speech more than most, it seemed like a very fair deal.

    So Arthur Harrow accepted the pain. The glass was no more, his feet bare, beaten, full of little scars painting his skin like the cracks on old murals in ancient cathedrals, those who saw war, famine and cruelty. He remembered the little chapel he visited many years ago in Italy, where he saw the eyes of painted priests looking at him with cold dissaproval. Perhaps it was because of the fresh blood that tainted his hands, sticking to his fingernails. He spilled a lot of it for Khonshu and his ideals back when the glowing eyes and the ceremonial suit were his to wear. He couldn’t say he missed it, the fabric on his skin, the unique power flowing through his body… But he almost, almost did. Some part of him, the one that enjoyed inflicting pain on behalf of the Moon God, was still there, buried somewhere deep in the darkest corners of his mind, and at times he could swear he feels it again, hears it again, wants to commit to it again.

    Your scales lack balance.

    He almost chuckled at the memory. I wonder why, he thought sarcastically. I have no idea. No idea whatsoever.

    The pain and blood he inflicted on himself did not, however, make him resistant. So everytime his foot, one or the other, slipped on the wet, dark rock he felt the excruciating pain of old wounds opening and new forming amongst them, fresh blood trailing his steps.

    Sometimes he made himself slip on purpose, when some thoughts became too unbearable, pain seeming like the only escape, the nervous system reacting accordingly and momentarily, forcing everything in him to focus on the new flash of torture. It worked, for a while. After a few moments his brain regained its composure, both a blessing and a curse, and once again his mind was flowing through the threads of his past, making him remember everything.

    Once again he put his bleeding foot in the wrong place, and the rock seized the opportunity at once. Wet, cold and with a traces of seasalt on it it deepened one of the already existing cuts. Against his wishes to stay silent, he lost the fight and cried out loud. He lost his balance, palms stretching out in front of him to stabilize the fall. But they also had to pay the price of pain in order to achieve their purpose. Arthur gasped, his lean frame nearly totally collapsed on the rocky shore. He forced his muscles, still strong, but tired at the same time, to answer to his will and slowly put himself on his knees. He could feel the texture of the rocks beneath his hands, feeding on his blood and pain, his slender fingers delicately tracing them, the vein crossing his palm defined so strongly it seemed like it wanted to escape, jump out of his skin and run away.

    Harrow allowed himself to take a few deep breaths and wait. He didn’t have anywhere to be right now, after all. Time could very well stop its existence and he wouldn’t feel the difference. His mission ended – with a failure, no less. The mercy he was shown by Marc Spector was not truly a mercy, he knew. It wasn’t a tale of redemption, his final purpose wasn’t to atone for what he did, but to accept it and still live with it. In suffering, none less, but perhaps that’s what acceptance was truly supposed to be.

    He looked at the rocks beneath him, his knees already aching – but he kept staring. Strands of his light brown hair obscured the sides of his vision, hiding his icy blue eyes from the moonlight, and once again he almost chuckled, thinking about how fitting it was. The very parts of himself were hiding the full picture from him, forcing him to stay in the dark.

    He was tired of it, so he lifted his right hand and ran his fingers along his scalp, forcing his hair to obedience. Most of them obeyed, but, as always, some didn’t, loose greying strands falling down once again, still somewhat blocking his view. The kneeling finally became too painful and, at the same time, too pointless somehow. Arthur slowly forced his body to fall over to the right, so he could balance himself and sit properly, staring at the waves. The view in front of his eyes forced him to pull at his old memories more, so he tried to do so. He focused on his followers, fathering happily in the streets of London in the evening, talking, playing, enjoying every little piece of what was mundane and just so typical of life. He used to be a part of this community, enjoying people’s company, hearing their stories, knowing them better.

    Knowing their strengths, but their weaknesses also. After all, he always strived for pragmatism in his own actions. Know your enemy, yes. But know your friend also, because he can always turn his back on you. Betrayal hurts more, and betrayal always comes from a friend.

    He remember Bobbi Kennedy, for one. She was one of those focused on silent action, not words, and he appreciated that. She was focused, loyal, and pragmatic as well – doing what she had to do, when she had to. It was inspiring for those around her, so when he asked her – ask was such a peculiar word, though – to do something that would be crucial to bringing Ammit back to the world, he always trusted her to do the deed. And she did, and she never asked for praise, welcoming back with success and in silence. It’s all she did, bow her head a little, and he would respond in kind, putting his hand on her shoulder.

    Billy Fitzgerald was also an example of a person he remembered well. The man was somehow like Bobbi, but there were more colors in his emotions and actions – his happiness and excitement was more evident, for example when he heard the ‘She’s here’ after so many years of waiting. But it also quickly broke itself and changed to concern and worry. ‘Mark Spector is in Cairo.’ Arthur noticed how Fitzgerald’s face has fallen at these words, and it never really fixed itself, even long after they finally entered the tomb. Arthur never really saw what happened to him, but he could’ve guessed, and somehow he felt like he actually knew. One of his men was slaughtered by the Heka priests in the field of his vision. Considering that Fitzgerald went to the wrong corridor of the maze and never came back, it was obvious.

    Harrow couldn’t say he felt bad, but the death of Fitzgerald was something he noticed, nonetheless, and that cruel pragmatism of his told him that this mere acknowledgment was quite enough. Some people don’t even get that.

    The waves that forced his mind into the fields of retrospection now changed their mind, unpredictable as they were. One of them hit the shore with more force than the others, and the water splashed far enough to reach his bloodied feet. Salt rubbing into the wounds made Harrow swore under his breath, his jaw clenching. Focus, focus, focus. Think of the others. Who else do you remember?

    He remembered quite a few, but he also had to admit that some of his followers were so far back in the corners of his mind that he could netiher precisely track their face, nor their voice – he mostly remembered names, because he was indeed quite good at that. But he had problems with putting them to their respective owners. Back then it wasn’t a big issue – or, rather, it didn’t seem like a big issue – but right now it seemed to frustrate him way more than it should. Now, when all these people were either dead or scattered to the winds, their cause lost, their beliefs shattered.

    There were kids playing in the streets, there were young and older couples sitting outside the old cafe, there were people wandering, thinking to themselves. Harrow always payed them more attention, because he knew that lonely retrospection was quite a dangerous tool, because it could very easily push a person out of their belief system. How easy it was to forget about the justice of Ammit, and the importance of the reason to bring her back when you have nothing but yourself around.

    So, he always tried to pick up these strays and talk to them. Using his words very carefully, very aware of the power his rough tone of voice. He knew how to use it to his advantage. Actually, once a young woman he talked to called him on that, and he smiled by a margin when that memory came up. She was in her early twenties – a peculiar individual at that because he could remember her face very, very well… But for the love of all the gods of this world, he couldn’t remember her name. Almost like his priorities decided to totally change for this one, random person. Shy, timid, but also very observant; he could see in her brown eyes that she sees more than she makes people think she does. Definitely more of a listener, she listened carefully, taking in all the words of thought he was giving her when he took her for a long stroll on one evening. And at some point she said ‘You’re very good with words.’. With no malice, with no distaste, but rather stating a solid fact with a hint of amusement dancing on her face. And just like that, for a short while, he couldn’t say anything. He just looked at her and smiled.

    He talked to her for many hours after that callout. It was the only conversation he ever had with her, but it was also the one for some reason he enjoyed the most because of how pure it was. Weirdly enough, he could swore he felt younger during that one evening. And she seemed to enjoy his company, even though he obviously knew who he was and what was the function of words and sentences he created and gave to her.

    Against his better judgment, he kissed her palm when they part ways, hoping he would had a chance to talk to her again at some point. He did saw her far away, amongst other people on many days that were next to come, but at some point she dissapeared without a word or a trace.

    She could’ve been a spy, he thought to himself. He realized that he never actually check her scales, never allowed them to show the balance – or inbalance – of her soul. It was weird of him to forget such a thing. So, despite of those fifty years of life experience, of gathered wisdom and skills, he could still be fooled by as little as a weird callback to his younger self. Lovesick, not-really-young fool.

    He took a deep exhale, running his palm through his face. He grew tired of his memories at this point. Harrow stood up, slowly, on shaking legs, and walked closer to the waves. They gathered at his feet like snakes, biting, inflicting pain, promising to consume him whole.

    Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe that’s his test.

    He unbuttoned his red shirt, slowly, almost as if he hesitated. He wasn’t sure himself, and this lack of certainty stirred a new flash of irritation. He got rid of the last button with more pressure, more force, more haste, feeling the cold air of the night brushing the naked skin of his chest. He huffed, tilting his arms to allow the fabric to slide off. As soon as his whole upper posture was uncovered, the wind gained on its strength.

    Charming.

    Harrow put his right foot in the proper water. The pain attacked once more, forcing him to choke down a cry, jaw clenching, drops of sweat gathering on his temples. A short while, and he made another step forward. And another. And another. He allowed the sea to consume him up to the line of his hips, and then he stopped. Wondering.

  What now?

    As if he knew. He once again moved forward. His fate wasn't his decision to make. He allowed people to be consumed by sands of the desert and ancient Egyptian priests, and as his own final punishment he chose the judgment of the sea.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- Did he die amongst the waves, or did he come out clean and walked back home - who knows?

[sukiglycerin]

lust & love & light rain || toshinori yagi.

* pairing: toshinori yagi (all might) x fem!reader

* genre: smut, pwp, fluff, dating au

* words: 2,758

* warnings: aNd hE waS hiT bY a QuiRk trope, brief inference of pillow humping, safeword system in place but not used, dom!toshinori, sub!reader, cunnilingus, creampie, unprotected sex (use protection irl !!), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, degradation, daddy kink, praise kink, aftercare!!, mention of painkillers

* original request from toishi: plz all might big pp

* a/n: yes all might big pp. birthday gift to @toishi! sorry kiri and kenma. here’s an indulgent all might pwp. enjoy!

something is off with toshinori as he enters your shared home. there's something you can feel in your gut as his bangs drape over the sides of his face, their golden color dulled; you can barely see his eyes, and under the shadows of his face, they're a diminished sky blue. the light is gone, as if the sun was obscured by an endless sea of clouds. his expression is dark, as if holding something in, and his shoulders slump with the burden of a hero's work.

"t-toshinori?" you ask as he shuffles his shoes off. he's still in his hero costume, which is muddied and torn.

"are you hurt?" you scan his body, checking for blood stains or awkward body parts.

he grunts. no.

"toshi? what's wrong?" you're worried now - did something happen on the job? hero work was always demanding, affecting even the strongest.

"nothing," his voice is hoarse, weary. "don't worry about it." he starts to walk towards your shared bedroom. "don't-" his voice catches, "don't follow. i need to be alone." he avoids eye contact, and that's when you know something's really wrong. toshinori never, never avoids eye contact when honest. on his darkest day, he'll make sure to look you in the eye and say something - whether it be a reassurance or a confession.

like hell you won't follow him. 

you let him go first to your room, so he can't stop you from following. you can hear the soft click of the door shutting, and a low shuffling in the room. you creep up to the door, listening. there's stuttered breathing - is he crying? - and a shifting of fabric.  there's no lock on the door - you and toshinori never felt the need - so you slowly push the door open, one hand on the knob and the other pressed against the wood.

nothing could've prepared you for the sight in front of your eyes.

"toshi?" you breathe. your eyes linger in confusion, and your brain connects the scene. 

his chest heaves, and sweat beads his forehead. his bangs hang down in front of him, slightly obscuring his face, but the rest is unmistakable. his clothing has long been abandoned on the floor, and your gaze follows lower and lower; first tracing the lines of his abs, his sharp v-line...

he catches your eye and he looks completely different. his lips are parted and his pupils are blown; gone is the blue sky his eyes, replaced by an unquenched sea. his breath shakes.

"d-don't. don't touch me, d-don't go near me. it's not safe." he seems to force the words out like bile, as if each pains him incredibly. his voice is weak. "p-please," he rasps.

"toshi? why? what's wrong?" you're confused - what's going on? his adam's apple bobs uncertainly. 

your eyes search for anything, any sign of something wrong, and then they land on it. something completely overlooked before. below the smooth dips of his pelvis, below his waistband. he's hard. his thighs twitch and oh god, he's hard. his boxers seem to strain against him and there's already a wet spot forming. a pillow is squeezed in between his thighs. upon realizing what he was doing, you feel your panties dampen at the sheer desperation your boyfriend has.

toshinori takes a breath, "s-some quirk. it should blow over by tomorrow morning, s-so i can handle it." he averts his gaze and mutters, "feels like shit, though." 

"toshinori, i can help you," you say, gently. "we're - y'know - dating, and it's not like we haven't-"

"i-i don't want to hurt you," he says with more conviction this time. "once i start... i don't think i'll be able to control myself."

you step towards him, and he hisses as if in pain.  "please..."

"i can help, toshi. we've talked it over. i trust you, and if there's anything i can do to ease the pain..." you outstretch your hand, but he shudders away from it. you step nearer and nearer towards the man, until your legs touch the edge of the bed. from here, you can hear his shaky, heavy breaths and see the way he heaves, shoulders moving up and down. your hand first starts on his shoulder, then drags down to his abdomen, tracing the ridges of his abs. it stops just at the waistband of his boxers, tugging on it. you look up at him, but his eyes are transfixed on where your hand has stopped.

"toshinori," you say softly. "it's okay. you can have all of me, now." you watch his features carefully as his face slowly contorts into many different emotions at once. 

"s-safeword?" he stutters.

"caramel," you say.

"fuck." there's a growl in his throat, and you're suddenly staring at the ceiling on your bed. his fingers find the hem of your shirt, and before he can roughly pull it off, you take it off instead. the look in his eyes tells you he'll have no regard towards your clothing for now. you can't pinpoint exactly when the shift in the air was; all you can tell is that the air hangs heavily over you. the atmosphere is completely dominated by toshinori.

your chest is now bare, goosebumps forming on the exposed skin. you're acutely aware of your breathing; keeping a steady rhythm as your chest rises and falls. your panties dampen with anticipation as quiet seconds pass. you're locked in a daze before you feel the bed dip under someone's weight.

you feel a hand tracing up your thigh, and your hairs stand on end. you dare not look at your boyfriend as he nears your so desired place. instead, you stare straight at the ceiling and keep yourself from clamping your legs shut on his hand. you don't want to provoke him while he's in such a sensitive state. his fingers reach the fabric of your panties without hesitation, and they press onto your clothed clit, challenging the wet spot to spread.

"fuckin' slut." your breath hitches at the obscenity that breaks the silence. "i've done nothing at all and you..." he chuckles darkly. "i bet this is what you've wanted the entire time, huh, dollface? i bet you wanted my thick cock to stretch your pretty little pussy for me since i came home, huh?"

you find yourself shaking your head by instinct, avoiding eye contact with toshinori.

"little girl can't even admit to it properly, huh? does she need a little help from daddy?" his finger's hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging the garment down. this is a completely different toshinori from the one you knew in bed. typically, he'd ease you into it, coaxing you with words, but he now has no regard towards it.

you buck into him on instinct, but you're completely pinned down. he pulls your ankles over his shoulders, leaning into your pussy and suckling like a man starved. you're completely at his mercy as you writhe in pleasure under the pro-hero, his strength completely dominating you. the pleasure is almost too much; you grasp at the bedsheets for any type of anchor as toshinori plays with your cunt unrelentlessly. you suddenly feel the sensation rising onto you all too fast, and you're unable to hold back the moans that spill from you. you clench against nothing, cum dripping from your messy cunt. your legs are tensed, and had toshinori not been holding them apart, they would've clamped down. you shudder, but his tongue still laps at your sopping core, prolonging your climax for too long.

air hits your glistening, wet folds; you can feel toshinori's gaze on your stiff bud.

"so wet," he marvels. without warning, he pushes your legs apart and wraps his lips against your clit.

"toshinori- daddy!" you cry, trying to pull his head away as the overwhelming sensation of overstimulation pours onto you. "can't!"

your legs tense so tight they could cramp, but toshinori still fervently sucks and licks your folds. you hold the bedsheets in a death grip, nails making deep indents in your palms. moans slip out one after another and your body convulses for any break.

your second orgasm crashes down on you and you wail, pain blurred with pleasure. 

"daddy," your cries are weak, breaking at the tip of your tongue. he pulls back and your walls contract even more; his swollen lips shine with an unmistakable white gloss and his eyes are undoubtably feral.

he plunges into your wet hole with no problem; you've created more than enough lubricant to allow him to do so. together, his tongue and his fingers ceaselessly attack your worn pussy, unaffected by your weak cries and constant clenching. you gulp for air, panting heavily, in an attempt to get out proper words.

"beg for it." his words drip with thickened lust, like he derives some sadistic pleasure from your weakened state. he attacks once again, and allows his grip on your legs to loosen. your body has gone limp already, eyes glassy with tears. 

his tongue circles your clit, prodding and abusing the swollen nub. a hand reaches out, collecting your arousal on its fingers. toshinori rubs the entrance of your slickened folds, the callouses on his fingerpads adding extra friction. 

"toshi- please," you gasp. "please, i need yo-ur cock-k, now." it's torturous against his fingers, who've left you no mercy to even create a coherent thought. he grunts, and for a second you allow yourself a glimmer of hope that he'd relent; when you look down, though, it's the opposite. a sly grin tugs at toshinori's lips, and his pace slows down. his fingers thrust slowly - dare you say sloppily - into your battered cunt, wet slapping noises filling the room. the man stops a second, his knuckle brushing your clit, and he curls his fingers in one precise movement that has you shuddering under him.

your body convulses, and your face contorts into that of pure pleasure. you moan his name indignantly as your orgasm washes over you. you hadn't realized until too late what he'd done, and it was a true show of the completely power he had over your body. his lips are swollen and glisten with your cum, eyes heavy-lidded as they watch you.

you heave in breaths, head clouded with arousal and toshinori's name. you barely register that toshinori's stood up from his place at the foot of the bed and that his boxers are gone.

his erection stands against his abdomen, leaking precum. your mouth waters at the sight, but it's clear the pro-hero has no patience for that now. 

"i-is this okay?" he grunts. it's clear the quirk has a strong hold on him, with the way his face holds back a grimace.

"yes." with the simple word, he's plunging into you. the stretch is one of delectable pain; it hurts, but it's addictive.

"d-daddy," you whimper as he bottoms out. it's too much; you throw an arm over your face as you squeeze your eyes shut. god, he's big, and you're not used to the sudden intrusion.

but toshinori is merciless. as soon as he hits your deepest spot, he's reeling out again. it leaves your aching pussy desperate for more, and that's what he delivers. he thrusts into you hard and fast, your thighs shaking from the impact.

and oh, does it feel so, so good. you tremble from the waves of pleasure rolling over you. you threw any self-control you might have out of the window, the room filling with your pretty moans and gasps. this only fuels toshinori more, snapping his hips vigorously against your pelvis. his fingers find your swollen clit, and the stimulation makes you jerk in his hold. he seems satisfied at the reaction - yet he doesn't stop.

"ple- ase," you gasp out, blinking through the tears. 

"t-toshi, stop!" you moan as toshinori rubs quick circles on the bud. 

his form towering above you is blurred, and you feel your cheeks get wet as tears drip from your eyes.

"look at my little pretty baby," he sneers. the words would've been comforting had it not been for the tone it was said. "fuckin' sobbing on my cock. is my pretty slut just that desperate?"

you shake your head rapidly. "no more, please," you wail. his pressure on your clit gets harder, as if daring you to cum.

"don't lie, baby," he coos, but it's laced with condescension. "you're fuckin' creaming around my cock already. see? you're clenching around me like the good cumslut you are. isn't that right?"

his words are muffled in your brain; you're completely enthralled by the pleasure, nearing your climax.

you grab onto toshinori's wrist with a steel grip as you cum, twitching as your cunt contracts around him incessantly. he makes a guttural noise, pupils completely blown with lust.

"almost there baby, you gonna be a good cumdump for daddy, yeah?" he affirms softly.

you aren't given time to reply as he pushes your knees to your chest, leaving yourself completely vulnerable to his ministrations. he thrusts harder and deeper, his thick member bruising your cervix. the new position allows him to deliciously hit your g-spot with precision, and your mind blanks with euphoria every time he does so.

"ah-h-! d-daddy!" you cry, putting your arms around toshinori's torso for leverage. he hisses in pain as you dug your nails into his back, your face distorting into pure ecstasy.

toshinori's lips land on yours. it's messy; a clash of tongues as he sucks your bottom lip. you're far too gone to notice the coil in your stomach snap as you cum once again, and finally, his seed is spilling into you, painting your walls white.

for a second or a minute, you stay like that. your breathing is the only sound in the room as you lay beneath the man. your head is hazy and you're overcome by the vague sensation of floating. toshinori's name is the only thing on your tongue, but you don't let it out.

"hey, baby." in your daze, you can make out toshinori's gentle voice coaxing you. "i'm gonna pull out, yeah? gonna get you all cleaned up."

you nod, wincing as he pulls out of you. everything's a blur; warm hands at your thighs and a warm, damp towel gently prodding your entrance. there's a fuzzy feeling in your mind, and your heart's aflutter. you smile at toshinori, who gives a confused but genuine smile in return. he dresses you like that, a soft smile on his face, and slips a blanket over you. he hands you a glass of water, which you take gingerly. your surroundings start to come back to you; the softness of the sheets, the love in toshinori's eyes. you take deep breaths, finishing the water.

after you regain your senses fully, he asks, "did i go too hard?" 

you shake your head. "it felt good, toshi."

"does anything hurt?"

you glance down at your nether folds sheepishly. a growing feeling of soreness started to grow; not to mention your poor thighs from all the tensing and moving.

"ah," he blushes. "sorry. i, uh... i think the quirk's effect has faded now..." he chuckles nervously. "i love you?"

you pout at him, but it's impossible to stay mad at toshinori. "i love you too," you say with a sigh. 

he gives you a soft peck on the lips, and tenderly thumbs your jaw. "you did so well."

the praise has you keening into his touch and you hum. 

"goodnight, love."

there's a shifting of sheets behind you as your boyfriend blearily says an apology. 

"g'night, toshi."

afterword:

"jesus fucking christ," you curse the next morning, attempting to get out of bed. everything is sore. "toshinori... i love you, but..."

"really, what kind of quirk was that...?" you groan, reaching for painkillers on your nightstand. you swallow them, gulping down water, and turn to toshinori. he pads down to your side of the bed, plopping next to you. he sets his chin on your shoulder as you wait for the painkillers to kick in, a mischievous glint in his eye.

he puts on his hero voice (or so you refer to it as) and says, "it's alright now!" you groan, recognizing his signature catchphrase. you expected him to pull something cheesy like this. that doesn't stop you from chiming in with him, "why? because i am here!"

what you didn't expect, however, was being carried for the rest of the morning with toshinori's strength even after your painkillers kicked in. yeah, you love him.

[manikas-whims]

A Tantalizing Surprise

[Read on AO3]

for Kanej Week (@kanejweek) Day 5: Love (domesticity)

It took around eight years and a lot of mutual support to achieve this level of intimacy. But he was glad they never gave up..

• Friend 1: write Inej in a silk dress and some sexy Kanej moment Friend 2: No! Write injured Kaz being patched up by Inej Me: *an unbiased friend* mixes both requests into this fic ~♥ • I headcanon Liddies being a gang run by women :)

Kaz Brekker utterly despised private parleys. Majority of the time they were a farce. Excuses crafted in order to get him alone and put an end to his reign forever. Everytime a haughty barrel boss offered him a drink or a condescending mercher invited him for dinner, it wasn't for the sake of striking amiable business deals with him. But to drive a knife through his rotten heart or shoot a bullet into that scheming head of his.

And yet he had agreed to meet the leader of the Liddies in a small coffee house on the bustling streets of the East Stave. They were stirring up too much ruckus and if left unchecked any longer, they'd embolden every other gang to go against the Dregs. Dirtyhands couldn't let that happen, now could he?

As suspected, no pleasantries were exchanged. The door was jammed shut immediately upon his arrival.

Their lieutenant, a burly, middle-aged brunette, attacked first. She tried smashing her wooden bat into his face but thankfully Anika blocked in time with a crowbar. Two other females followed, swinging rustic metal pipes at him which he managed to counter with his cane. Roeder was struggling on the other side, engaged in a one-on-one with their spider.

"This ends tonight, Brekker." Their leader howled from her perch atop a stool. "Barrel needs a queen."

"Barrel already has one." He responded calmly.

"The little whore? The one who's barely in this city?" she grinned sharply, getting up.

"Careful." His gaze turned steely and his gloved fingers flexed tensely onto the crow head of his cane. "I can gut you and your ladies for insulting my Wraith."

"I'd like to see you try." She sneered, madly lunging at him with her bare hands.

He sighed. This was going to be a long night.

The fight lasted for an hour. Liddies finally ran off when more Dregs arrived on the scene and broke down the coffee house's door.

Kaz dictated his gang to double the security around the Crow Club and his other establishments just in case. He then dug his fingers into his right leg in hopes of quelling a little of the ache there as he dragged himself back to his place. Not the slat anymore but a luxurious mansion on the Geldstraat. He had purchased it under a pseudonym after Councilman Hoede had passed away three years ago.

Blame Wylan for making him waste his kruge on a deadman's house. Though the dark wood walls and coffered ceilings looked amazing upon his first visit, he did get a few things renovated. Such as converting the dilapidated Grisha workshop into an ordinary shed and the addition of wild geraniums to the vast variety of flowering plants in the gardens.

Despite his habits, he pulled out a key that he kept within the hidden pocket on the left side of his coat and swiftly unlocked the large, black, entrance gates. The next few minutes of the long walk through the front stone pavement didn't feel regal, atleast not to his leg. He retrieved another key upon reaching the main doors. It was an odd experience every time— to enter a house this big without utilizing his skills in lock-picking.

He didn't stop to admire the blown glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling or the stolen DeKappel displayed mockingly on the opposite end of the hall. He simply braced himself for the walk up the long staircase leading towards the more private quarters of the mansion.

His steps came to a halt only when he reached the master bedroom. And that too, not because it had been his destination all along but because he felt her presence.

He shook his head in disbelief. Maybe six months of being apart were taking a toll on him, playing tricks with his senses. Or maybe it was just an effect of blood loss due to the cut he'd taken during the fight with the Liddies.

He turned the knob and entered, the room same as ever. A bookshelf tucked in the left corner from the door, a vanity table with a full-length mirror right next to it; a door leading to the balcony and another door to the bathroom on the other end. And of course, the king-size bed atop which his eyes found her tantalizing form, aglow under the golden flame of the dimly burning lone candle.

Kaz regarded her silently. Her lithe frame was covered in a purple, silk nightgown that left barely anything to his imagination. Or rather, it was exactly the sight he envisioned every night. An ideal reverie where he pulled her onto his lap and kissed down the delicious curve of her neck. A fantasy where he relished in her whispers of his name. A fantasy where they did all the unholy things they're capable of now. A fantasy he had been yearning for yet kept locked in the darkest recesses of his twisted mind.

But this was different. This woman in his bed had longer hair and was far more breathtaking than any imagery he could will his mind to conjure. This was real. She was real.

"Saints!" She slid off the bed. "Kaz, what happened?"

Yes, she was real.

And she had chosen an interesting outfit for their reunion.

But it was unusual of her to dock in Ketterdam and not send a runner to let him know. Not to mention, she had somehow managed to sneak into their mansion without any keys.

"You're hurt!"

He scoffed at her concern and proceeded to discard his coat. After all the times they've fought and bled together, she should be used to witnessing him a little roughed up.

He peeled off his gloves with methodical ease and tossed them onto the table. Then he tentatively reached for one of her hands, his thumb stroking along the pulse in her wrist. There was no harm in confirming she was real and alive.

"Welcome back, Wraith."

She freed her wrist, completely ignoring his greeting, and placed her palms over his stubbled cheeks. Fortunately, no waves lapped up his skin. So he let her turn his face this way and that to check for any signs of injuries. When she found none, she smiled in relief and pulled his face down so their lips could meet. His arms immediately snaked around her waist. And he was glad her only reaction was a soft sound of contentment, not tensing or vanishing in his hold. It took around eight years and a lot of mutual support to achieve this level of intimacy. But he was glad they never gave up and worked together to get accustomed to one another's touch.

The contact overwhelmed him everytime, in a good way of course. It was exhilarating to be able to brush his lips against hers. A common gesture for most couples but a very big accomplishment for them. Just like everything else.

Everytime they shed a piece of their armor, touched longer, touched more, they counted it as a new milestone. He was thankful to their patience and to whichever of Inej's saints had blessed them for their persistent efforts.

The kiss deepened with every passing moment, all those months of separation provoking their dormant desires. But as soon as his tongue slid past her mouth, he felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen and broke away. "Fuck! What the hell, Wraith!?"

In trailing her hands along his torso, she had accidentally discovered the cut wound on the left side of his lower abdomen. She glared down at the small dot of blood staining his clothes. "You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation!"

He laughed at the furrow of her brows as she pushed him back until he was seated in a chair. "Takes one to know one."

He heard her huff before she disappeared inside the bathroom and returned seconds later with a roll of bandage, cotton swabs, and a disinfectant.

The blade of the knife had torn past both his vest and shirt but fortunately, barely grazed his skin. The cut wasn't deep or life-threatening, only seeping slow trickles of blood. However, that didn't stop his fiercely gentle partner from worrying. She began undoing the buttons on his vest and in the heat of the moment, he joked. "Someone is eager."

This time she glared at him directly and resumed her task. She was cautious in shrugging off the vest. Even more whilst removing his sweaty shirt.

As soon as the disinfectant-soaked cotton pad grazed his wound, he pressed his lips into a thin line. "Care to explain why I wasn't informed of your arrival?" He gritted out through the light haze of pain. He wasn't mad. But had he known, he would've cleared his schedule for her. Denied that parlay altogether and avoided being injured.

Her hands hesitated in cleaning the blood. "I wanted to surprise you."

Now his brows quirked.

"And was this part of the surprise?" He stared at the thin slip of nightdress snug on the curves of her beautiful body. His voice lowered an octave. "You put this on for me?"

She chewed on her bottom lip, a small action he had noticed her doing when in contemplation. "My intention was to doll-up for the King of the Barrel."

He shook his head, tugging on the hem of her dress. "Seems to me the Queen of the Seas was intent on arousing me with her alluring silks."

She punched his shoulder lightly. "You're bruised and bleeding and this is what you think?"

"Inej," He spoke earnestly, his ardent gaze focused on her as she continued bandaging him, "I always think about you."

"Aside from when I'm out there making money." He added as an afterthought.

She giggled.

He waited until she was done tying the last knot of the bandage to stand up. His fingers disappeared beneath her dress, glided tenderly over the flesh of her thighs in the moment he lifted her up. Her legs naturally came to wrap around his waist and she looked at him. "Kaz?"

He responded with a soft, lingering kiss before pulling back, his breath fanning her lips. "Still in the mood to surprise me?"

She nodded, her eyes averted shyly for once as he carried her towards the shower.

[bleedingvengnce]

Guns and Roses | JJ Maybank Smut

Summary: JJ’s girlfriend doesn’t enjoy him wielding a gun around, and is very vocal about it. JJ needs to show her that he knows how to handle it, and her.

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader

Warning: Smut(a lot of it), unprotected sex, gun kink, absolute filth, 18+

A/N: Haven’t written smut in ages but I knew the world just needs a JJ Maybank who has a gun kink. Enjoy;) (Not Edited)

“Okay, everyone, listen up! Get the hell off of our side of the island!” JJ howled, resentment and hated wrapping around his words.

You watched her boyfriend aim the gun towards the sky, firing off two piercing warning shots to bring terror to those around him. Shrieks and cries emanated from the dispersing crowd as you watched on with wides eyes. Your mouth hung open in shock at how psychotic JJ was acting within this moment, a crazed looking creasing on his features.

“Are you fucking crazy?” You screeched, your voice hitting new heights.

“You idiot, why would you do that?” Pope backed your words, shoving his friend roughly, narrowed eyes directed at the blonde boy.

“I’m saving his life, ok?” His tone was desperate, hands thrown in the air as he unsteadily waved the gun about.

“You’re going to jeopardize everything!” You were glowering at him, seething with irritation at the stupidity of your reckless boyfriend.

“Whatever,” He muttered.

His eyes narrowed at you, treading towards his injured friend that collapsed limply into the frothy foam.

“Oh god, John B!” The group rushed towards him, Pope and JJ hauling his lax figure from the grips of the salty sea.

Your eyes caught onto the sight of the gun shoved lazily in the waistband of JJ pants, your gaze shooting daggers at the inanimate object. You always held a hatred towards the weapon, witnessing too many lifeless bodies on the news, headlines scribed, “Twenty Kids Shot Dead During the School Day,” or “Unarmed Black Man Killed by an Officer with a Gun,” or something to that effect. You were a known activist for stricter gun laws, wanting to rid the world of the ruthless weapon that has taken so many innocent lives too soon. You loathed it even more that JJ was well aware of your beliefs and completely disregarded your feelings by continuing to wield the gun around.

The two of you dropped Kiara and Pope off, the two of them being busy with work early the next morning or their folks needed them home for the night. All that was left was the annoying JJ and his knocked out friend sprawled in the back seat. The three of you finally arrived at John B’s place, JJ shifting the raggedy and run down van into park, the engine sputtering off. Your boyfriend dragged John B from the van, lugging the boy’s weight over yours and JJ’s shoulders as you both heaved him towards the house. He was heavier than he looked. You kicked the door open, tossing his body lazily onto the couch in the living room, John B’s eyes remaining shut throughout the entire process, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths as a sign of life.

JJ sauntered into the kitchen, pulling the door to the fridge open, gazing into it at the few items placed inside which was beer, condiments, and more beer.

“You want anything?” You heard him call out to you as you checked John B over to make sure he was ok, nothing bleeding heavily or any bruises that looked as though they may lead to internal bleeding.

You didn’t respond to his question, still frustrated over his actions from tonight.

“Ok, fine,” He mumbled, pulling out a bottle of beer and twisting cap off, downing the golden liquid as though it was water.

“What’s your deal, Y/N? Seriously still pissed about the gun?” Your eyes rolled at his words, not even sparing him a glance as you sat at John B’s side, the unconscious boy being your only distraction within this moment.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” His words were hard, vicious as he leaned against the kitchen table, burning holes in the back of your skull.

“Yeah I’m still pissed, dumbass,” You hissed, shooting him a disapproving scowl, venom twisting around your words.

“Seriously, Y/N? It’s not that big of a deal,” He huffed, shaking his head at you, as though you were some silly child he couldn’t understand.

Though, he was the child in this situation.

“Yes, it is. You could have killed someone tonight. You could have killed multiple people. It’s not a toy.” The level of your voice was steadily beginning to rise, lifting yourself into a standing position as you faced your idiotic boyfriend.

“I know it isn’t. I know what I’m doing,” He defended, stepping towards you, eyes in slits as he stared you down.

“No you don’t. You’re careless. You shouldn’t even have a gun.” You were yelling at him now, motioning your hands in exaggerated movements as you inched closer to the boy.

“Yes I do. Stop being a nagging bitch,” He spat out poisonously, infuriated with you and your words.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re literally a child.” You were beyond seething, but knew those were not the right words to say to a raging JJ in this moment.

The two of you were inches away from one another’s now, the tension hanging thick in the air as you both glowered at each other, fury igniting within your irises.

“What did you say to me?” His voice was low, rumbling deep from within his heaving chest.

Though, something shook you to the core. You watched as JJ’s piercing gaze flit between your eyes and your pursed lips. The dark glint clouding in his eyes was not solely anger, but something else entirely. He instantly reached his hand up, fingers harshly grabbing at your jaw. Your eyes instantly widened at the contact, his calloused grasp tilting your head to the side in a vice like grip.

“I said, what did you say to me?” He quirked a brow after reiterating the question, his jarring stare unrelenting as he tsked in disappointment.

“I-I said you’re a child.” You tried to maintain the spiteful tone you directed his way, but your voice unwilling wavered.

Your brain was scolding your resisting body, the way he was manhandling you causing a dripping warmth to pool between your legs, mouth running dry at the way he peered down at you with his eyes storming with arousal.

“A child, hm?” He hummed, irises smoldering behind the tendrils of his golden hair.

“I’m not a child baby, and I’m going to prove that to you.” He dove into the exposed crook of your neck, using his blunt ivories to bite down on your sensitive skin.

An unruly moan tumbled from your lips at the roughness of his kisses. Faster than you could blink, you backed you into the wall behind the two of you, your head cracking against the wall with a sickening thud. Your mind was numb due to the plethora of suckling being done on your neck. He nipped at the bare flesh of your collarbone, your jaw still locked in his clutches, the other entangling around your waist to pull you flush against his muscled figure. You felt your stomach flutter at him leaving ragged purple bruises along your throat, your hands desperately grabbing at his biceps for more stability as your legs wavered.

“JJ,” You breathed out, nails digging into his skin as his free hand groped your butt.

“Let’s take this into the bedroom,” His words weren’t a question, but an order, pulling you into John B’s room, your mind unable to fully comprehend you would be having sex on your good friend’s bed.

Though, this wouldn’t be the first time.

JJ slammed the door shut behind the two of you, turning back to focus his attention on your heated figure. He roughly pressed his lips against yours, teeth clashing in a messy makeout. Your fingers weaved their way through his thick blonde locks, tugging at them each time his tongue dipped easily between your parted lips. His hand traveled from the protruding bone of your hip up the length of your body, finding its resting place on your throat. The tips of his fingers were gentle at first, loosely gripping around your neck, before her squeezed harshly, constricting your airway briefly, before releasing his deadly grasp. A whimper escaped your throat after he let up, though, not releasing your dainty throat. Your knees trembled at the aggressive behavior he was portraying. You could feel your panties soaking from the arousal dripping from your pussy, craving his expert touch.

“Mm, baby, you like that?” He purred, pulling away from the kiss with bruised lips, left over saliva from your mouth glistening against his beautiful mouth you craved so much.

All you could do was nod, words leaving you within this passionate moment, only heaving breaths, struggling against the weight of his hand, were heard.

“Come on baby. Tell me what you like.” He urged for you to tell him your deepest desires, the fantasies buried deep within your mind that you would touch yourself to while he was away.

“I-I like when you’re rough with me.” Your voice trembled measly, looking at him with desperation as you squeezed your thighs together, desperate for any sort of friction.

“How rough, baby?” He was attempting to coax those unspoken desires from your lips, his other hand clutching at your waist, fingertips roughly pressing into your delicate skin and leaving sore marks.

“So rough with me. So rough that I can barely breathe. That marks are left on me for days. I want you to show me that you’re in charge of me. I want you to take control.” You spilled your darkest secrets to your boyfriend, never having gone much farther with your sexual experimentation than brief choking and light slaps against your ass.

“Very good, sweetheart.” He nodded in approval, a devious smirk toying at his lips as he grabbed at your shirt, instantly ripping it off of you to reveal your bare breasts, a bra being no where to be found.

He didn’t miss a beat, his pretty lips wrapping around your nipple, suckling the pebbled nub into his mouth. His teeth lightly nibbled on it, a free hand reaching at to pinch harshly at the other one, leaving it red and aching after the twists and pulls with his fingers.

“JJ, please, I need more.” You practically cried out, your pussy throbbing in desperation at the built up tension he was creating.

“Sh, baby, I’m getting there.” He shushed you, nipping at your sore nipples, before standing back up straight.

Both of his hands found your hips, lifting you in the air and carelessly tossing you on the bed behind the two of you. You squealed after you hit the bouncy mattress, looking up at the approaching boy, tossing his shirt to the floor, revealing his chiseled chest that you could admire for hours on end.

His lips found yours again as he settled his weight on top of you, putting most of it on one arm while the other grasped at your jaw again. The kiss was messy, disorganized, but delicious, enjoying the way your teeth clashed together, tongues sloppily lapping at each other as he ground his hips down onto yours, relieving some of the burning arousal. As soon as the fervent moment began, it stopped, JJ having pulled away to gaze down into your eyes, seriousness creasing along his features.

“My love, do you trust me?”

You cock an eyebrow in curiosity as the clouding lust dissipated from his eyes, wondering why he could be asking this question.

“Well, it depends.” You answered honestly, completely unsure as to what he would say next.

“Please baby. I need you to tell me you trust me.” He eyed her carefully, urging her to respond.

You don’t understand the persistence within the question he was asking, but, after a moment of consideration, you parted your lips to speak.

“Yes, I trust you.”

The serious expression set upon his face eased greatly, the glint reappearing within his eyes, this time fiercer and more prominent than before, a devious grin spreading on his lips. You watched as one of his hands disappeared behind his back, soon returning with the weapon that you so loathed. You felt your eyes widen, eyeing the gun carefully.

“JJ...” You trailed off, but all you could think about was how the question and this weapon could be connected, “What’re you doing with that?”

You pieced the clues together, before finally landing on a surprising conclusion, staring at the boy with his favored toy, hovering over you with a hunger look pooling in his irises.

“Oh,” You breathed, your body reacting to the new toy brought into the bedroom to use, for him to dominate you with.

You felt your skin buzz with excitement at just the thought, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. He was awaiting your words, not making a movement as he desperately stared down at you. But, like you stated previously, you trusted him. You lifted one of your hands, the tips of your fingers dancing along his arm as you turned your head down in an accepting nod, going against everything your brain was screaming for you to do, listening to your body’s needs instead.

He grinned down at you, thankful you accepted his unspoken proposal. You felt the cool plastic of the weapon grazing against your cheek, feeling your heart begin to patter at how close the barrel was coming towards your face. His free hand trailed down your abdomen, fingers lightly brushing along the waistband of your shorts. You exhaled a shuttered breath, never breaking eye contact with him as his hand ungracefully unbuttoned your shorts, you kicking them the rest of the way down your legs.

JJ ran a finger over your clothed clit, feeling the wetness seeping through the cotton fabric.

“Mm, baby. You’re soaking.” He hummed in approval, running the weapon down between your breasts and around your stomach.

You felt his fingers slip under the waist band of your bright pink underwear, hovering over your throbbing clit, chest heaving with anticipation of his deliciously long fingers. You needed him so bad, lifting your hips to meet his touch. He shook his head in disappointment at the action, knowing how much he loved to tease you. The hard plastic of the barrel dug into your hip bone, JJ using it to press your core back into mattress below.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Your boyfriend tsked with displeasure, a whine emitting from your throat at the feeling of the weapon making you compliant as it jabbed at your skin.

“Please touch me, JJ,” You whined, tongue swiping over your dried lips as you lay in expectation for his pleasurable touches.

“What ever you say, princess.” Without warning he dipped his fingers into your dripping slit, narrowly missing your clit.

A wanton groan tumbled past the escapes of your lips, eyes rolling into the back of your hair at his calloused finger tips dragging between your lips. He repeated the motion, this time flicking over the overly sensitive nub. Your hips jerked up at the sensation, knocking against the gun still pressed harshly into your abdomen.

“Oh yes!” You yelped as the tip of his fingers circled your clit, applying different types of pressure against the nerve endings.

The weapon he clutched onto went back to circling around your stomach, gentle touches as he rubbed mind numbing figure eights onto your clit, feeling yourself pushing closer to the edge with each motion of his finger. He knew just how to touch you, his lips easily caressing your inner thigh as he lay between your open legs. He practically disregarded the deadly weapon, pulling your panties aside to flicker his tongue across your core, the new sensation dragging you right near the edge of release. JJ’s lips effortlessly wrapped around the nub, sucking harshly while he used his free hand to plunge two fingers within your tight hole, curling the two fingers upwards. You felt him brush against the spot that makes your legs tremble, breathless moans coming from you at the pleasure he was creating from his luscious lips and long fingers.

Your fingers weaved into his golden blonde hair, watching him eagerly lap at your core, his gaze flickering up to your face.

“JJ, I’m-” Your words were halted by him humming against your clit, that being what caused you to hurl yourself directly over the edge, your orgasm consuming your mind.

Your eyes snapped shut as you arched your back into the air, your mind dropping into a world shattering orgasm. Your legs twitched as he let you rid it out, gently slipping his fingers out from inside of you, giving your clit one last lick before retracting from between your legs. A glistening liquid coated his lips as he grinned down at you, his bulge large and prominent between his legs.

“My turn, baby.” His pants were on the floor in second, his hands rushing to rip your panties off of your body.

He roughly gripped your hips, lifting them to meet his. He grasped at his now exposed cock, running his hand over it before slipping it over your still dripping pussy. You felt it bump against your overly sensitive clit before swiftly sinking the length inside of you.

“Oh fuck, Y/N,” JJ hissed, relishing in the feeling of your tight heat clenching around his dick as he bottomed out.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of him sully stretching you out, loving the way the veins of his length grazed against every deliciously sensitive part of your heat. He then pulled himself so just his tip was remaining, before slamming back into you. He found a perfect and rough rhythm, pounding into you over and over again, unrelenting. You felt the click of his gun returning, this time, digging into your temple, the barrel positioned in a dangerous spot. Just his finger twitching, and you could have a bullet in your skull. His other hand harshly grasped at your hips, bruising them with his grip. You felt adrenaline pulsing through you with your throbbing core. You were ashamed how much you loved the way the weapon was stuck again your head, his length wrecking your insides as he violently thrusted inside of you. You loved how he had complete and utter control of you and your body, holding your life in the palm of his hand as he turned you into a moaning and sweaty mess.

“Oh shit, baby, I’m close.” You gazed upon him, his face creased as his brows furrowed together, his thrusts becoming sloppy, the weapon that was previously against your skull now discarded on the table next to you.

You urged him on, meeting each snap of his hips until you felt his warmth filling you to the brim, his length pulsating within you. He let out a rumbling groan, squeezing your pelvis tightly, before collapsing on top of you in a sweaty heap.

“Holy shit, JJ,” You breathed out, unable to fully comprehend what had just occurred between the two of you.

“Holy shit is right.” He rolled off of you, gathering your petite body in his arms to comfort you, the both of you savoring your mind blowing orgasms you had.

“So, did you, did you enjoy it? With, you know?” He couldn’t fully formulate the words, but he didn’t have to, you understanding what he was referring to.

“In a way, yes. It was horrifying, scary, intense, and pleasurable all at the same time. I loved how dominant it made you, how fully in control you were.” You confessed, staring up into his beautiful blue irises.

“Maybe we can do it again.” He winked, a teasing tone threading his words, but knowing he was more than serious in wanting to partake in something like that again.

“Maybe let’s not point a loaded gun at my head again.” You stated bluntly, though, a little part of you couldn’t help the way your thighs tensed at him fucking you like that in the future.

“I hate to tell you this, but the safety was on the whole time.”

[ktheist]

when a dragon loves a witch.

min yoongi thought he was the shit.

not because his heart-shaped face was on the prettier side of the standards of beauty that’s eating away at this old, waning world. nor is it because he has at least three people coming up to him and confessing their undying love every year. but because he thinks he’s- “the only few people in the world that can murder you and leave no forensic evidence behind.”

the way his eyes light up with confidence and excitement at the thought of dueling you - is adorable.

he thinks he can beat you. the ancient one. the beast that once soared the skies with wings made of gold and breathe fire upon a kingdom and send even the proudest of kings to their knees.

nowadays, you laze around in your apartment  as a human girl. the actual humans have build warheads and nuclear weapons capable of detonating an entire mountain. you dare not find out what they’ll do if they found a growl of a beast rocking the skies.

because as powerful as you are, there is nothing more powerful than a human with a heart and persons to protect.

“us dragons turn to flower beds when we die,” you say in a matter of factly - an aging knowledge that’s about to be forgotten from this world, “technically, there won’t be any body to make my grave a crime scene.”

admittedly, min yoongi wasn’t a young magic that needed nurturing anymore. he could have been an ancestor in a few coming centuries. one that would rise up above all others. that was why he was half-serious about ending you.

if he’d proven himself by reaping the ancient one’s soul, witches all over the world would have flocked to him like crows. he’d proved himself worthy of the title. would be the youngest ancestor in the history of magic.

if he’d known you were no human girl and if you’d known the man with the darkest eyes was no ordinary person that one unfortunate night, you both would have, without a doubt, clashed against one another.

“what - what the-“ he’d stared at the noticeable protrusion of your belly with rounded eyes, a contrasting sight from when you first wakes him up to kick him out before noticing the weight that wasn’t there on your human body before, “what did you have last night?!”

he meant food but the answer was sex.

because you’ve had a fair share of human males and females in your lifetime. none of their seeds managed to stay with you long enough to become another being - another creature that is not wholly dragon nor human.

before he could react, you’d pinned him down, knees buried on either sides of his waist, talons digging into the skin of his neck. you’d felt the familiar warmth deep in your throat as you growled a voice you haven’t heard of in a long while, “what are you?”

there was flash in his eyes - possibly when he saw yours turn to slits, a sort of panic and understanding that the woman he’d just bedded was no woman at all.

so you made sure to draw blood from where your talons graze against his skin - it was red and so very human, “you have one chance. use it well.”

“okay, okay!” he held up his hands like a man guilty of a crime, “i’m a witch!”

at that, a low rumble rose from the depths of your belly. no wonder he looked human. felt human.

in your rage, you’d hissed out that the thing growing inside you was his child, “i’d been so careful not to come across another species,” all you saw was red as you’d turned to him, “i should kill you.”

the odds were against you - an ordinary witch’s seed wouldn’t have been able to impregnate you. his magic was unbridled - and as you stared at the man-like creature who’d stared back at you without so much as fear, you knew he knew that too.

as much as he was a witch closest to the level of an ancestor, min yoongi was not a killer. or he was not going to murder a child at least.

“this is no child- it’s a curse!” your talons and slits were the only things that came back. not even your magnificent scales appeared on your skin. it was happening - this- this creature was controlling your body, forming and deforming it to suit its needs as it grew inside you.

“i’m not going to stop you if you don’t wish to keep it. it’s your body... but wouldn’t you want to know what’ll happen... how it’ll be?” for once, there was no trace of maddening fascination in his eyes ever since he found out what you were and what he’d caused to grow inside you.

so you kept it- you kept the creature. mainly because you still had the end of the world to live and regret if you didn’t find out yourself.

min yoongi didn’t move in with you - he had was living with his covenant of witches that would’ve suspect something wrong if he decided to move out from what seemed to be unsuspecting apartment building on the skirts of the city. he did, however, drop through tears of reality.

he brought you ordinary human foods and potions that could help sustain you, “we don’t know what keeps it alive,” he explained while you were popping chips into your mouth, legs propped on the coffee table whilst a mediocre human show was playing on the tv.

you both later found out that it was self-sustaining, living and thriving inside you for almost a century as times change and you’re forced to change with it. you bought a new penthouse because the old one was getting rebuilt. yoongi still visited you everyday - he fucked you everyday too because this thing - this creature, it thrived upon the fleeting moment when both you and him were connected.

in your burning heart, you’d known what exactly kept it alive, “our lifespans, yoongi,” you’d said once you’d come down from your high after fucking like rabbits - such pure, defenseless creatures, “it’s draining our lifespans!”

yoongi didn’t say anything but he didn’t leave either when it was the easiest for him to escape through a tear and disappear for who knew how long. he’d stayed and made human food and kept your part in the fridge when you didn’t join him for dinner.

it was the note tacked up on the lid of the container, instructing you to pre-heat it for 3 minutes, that made you crawl into bed with him in the extra room that’d become his. with your protruding belly and all.

“i’m scared, yoongi -” and for the first time, you’d felt fear, “-i’m scared it’ll turn into a monster. i’m scared they’d come for her and i’m scared i’d love her even then.”

and as he wrapped his arm around you and kissed your forehead, you’d realized that he’d loved the creature even before you did. fascination was just the surface of his abundance of love for something he never knew. it was anticipation. excitement for a sign of life. love from a father to his child. even if it turned out to be a creature of destruction - an abomination given by the gods to the evergreens.

you sought solace in each other’s warmth but you didn’t truly love each other.

and yoongi still talks about taking you on in a fight. as he does now.

“just... any ordinary flowers?” he asks, ever the curious one - you don’t know whether it is out of the sincerity of his heart or if he’s conjuring up some wicked scheme to extract the essence of the flowers at your death.

“it depends on what we loved most in our lifetime,” somehow, you keep talking, “red roses for undying passion, alchemilla mollis for those that managed to find love, though unrequited and can never be... every kind of flower you can thinking of,” involuntarily, your hand goes to your belly, “but none of us have ever had carnations embed our graves.”

“what meaning does carnations bear?” yoongi walks over to you from the kitchen, stacks of sandwich piled on top of a plate and placed on the coffee table in front of you.

“admiration... affection... devotion... a mother’s undying love,” a smile tucks on the corners of your lips.

the hand yoongi takes is bare of its talons. you’ve sworn never to summon them in his presence. so you can never hurt him again. the print of his thumb is callous against your skin - he could have charmed them to be as soft as a baby’s but he didn’t want to erase the traces of his life’s worth of wand-wielding.

his lips are soft though, as he brings your knuckles to your skin, sealing his devotion for you and your child.

x

when the time comes for the unrelenting pain - akin to black arrowheads struck into your scales and digging into your flesh - comes, you remember wishing you’d turn into flowers, just so it’d end faster. you remember losing all feeling in your body but having lie there in sweat and tears as yoongi’s warm spells seep into you. it only numbs the pain by a notch. but you appreciate them anyway.

then you hear it, the first cry. pushing yourself up, you see yoongi, rocking a child in his arms, cooing to an ancient lullaby in a forgotten language than only his kind knows.

“she’s so very human,” you say some time after the cries quiet down into quiet snores.

“maybe because you were in your human form when you carried her,” yoongi suggests as he stares at the child sleeping next to you on the bed with like he’ll never want anything else in the world.

shar.

ever so lovely as the light of the first dawn. the time she was born. she bears so much resemblance to her father, jet black hair, curled to frame her face. when she smiles, she smiles a gummy smile just like her father’s. the scales that cover her skin when she’s upset is undoubtedly yours. her eyes are of no other, bearing the galaxy within them as well as ether’s flames.

perhaps it’s yoongi’s magic and your power that rests within them.

either way, you adore your little seedling very much.

a century for you is a year for her. but neither you nor yoongi mind for you have an eternity together.

that is, until you don’t.

the first sign of war erupts when you were showing her how to light up a candle with just her breath. she ends up melting too many candles and the penthouse smells of pinewood and lavender and sea waves.

yoongi steps through the reality, bloodied and bruised but alive.

“we have to go,” he says with a kind of urgency you’ve never before heard in his complacent years of living, “the dark wizards - they know - they infiltrated the covenant disguised as one of us and one managed to touch my hand - it was a mind reader.”

“dada?” shar gazes up at her father with those galaxy eyes like she’d understood every word he’d said even though she was supposed to be three according to human developments.

“shar, darling, we have to go away for awhile - remember i used to travel a lot back when i was a dragon? we’re going to travel!” you say and she claps, echoing ‘travel! travel!’ with a sort of zeal only children could have.

her first step through reality makes her scales appear. she’s crying and clinging onto you like she’s scared and in pain and confused.

“i don’t get it- she can do simple spells- tears shouldn’t hurt her,” the crease in yoongi’s forehead is an alien sight so are his wakeful eyes compared to the sleepy droop that says he could fall asleep on the floor if he wills it.

“there’s still not much we know about shar and what she can’t or can do,” you grip his hand tightly, “it’s not your fault.”

so you’re on the run and death follows not too far behind. the cerulean skies you once soared beyond and above are now marred with a kind of darkness. darker than midnight even in the daylight.

the witches of the north shiver at the sight of your child’s eyes. the moon elves claims that shar is not a creature of this world. everywhere you go, none are willing to assist.

and you find yourself within the walls of your previous dwelling. back when dragons rule the lands and skies. back when no foolish creature ever dares to venture into the darkness of a cave for fear of a slumbering creature with scales and fire as breaths.

“all i remember is that i was alive - playing hide and seek with the faes until they die of old age,” the burned patches of the rock walls still remain eons later, “i mourned them for a century before i stepped out - i was so young, the humans shot me with black arrowheads and i burned down their villages.”

the scar from where one struck you still mars your skin - human or dragon, it’s still there.

yoongi traces the slant of the scar of your shoulder as if he’d take the pain and the horrendous memories that came with it if he could.

“take care of shar, yoongi.” you finally say, looking over at the sleeping child by the fire place.

the thought of your young, forming bones having to bear nights on the hard ground pains you more than a mere strike through your scales.

“we’ll take care of her together,” he kisses the top of your head.

that night, you fall asleep, cuddled up around your child with your hands held together as if vowing to protect and cherish. and cherish you will. as well as protect.

the dark wizards find you right where you want them after you’d left the cave. it was hard not to notice the trails of fires you’d left behind as you wait for them in a cafe, abandoned with tables and chairs knocked over as if whoever came before you left in a hurry.

you tried making your first mocha latte with what ingredients they left behind - doesn’t taste as good but you don’t even have to wait long for the shadow to arrive and a man in a dark cloak takes the seat across from you.

“drakaina,” the words are slurred and dragged out but you’ve lived too many centuries not to know your own name.

“stop looking for them and i’ll serve as your aide,” it isn’t an offer. it’s an order. the cloaked figure lowers his head in submission of the power that reeks off your existence yet dare asks.

“but what can an ancient being like yourself do... your greatness,” he finishes off with a hail.

the first growl rips through the skies on an afternoon you know not what day of. nor what year. your chest lights up with flames of hell. scales line what used to be human skin as the roof caves over your growing form. the buildings collapse in with the gust of wind that your wings summon.

the wizard laughs. a manic look in his eyes.

x

the war does not last for longer than half a decade. none is able to withstand you. those that do lose their souls.

you’ve taken lives before without regards to its sanctity. you take them now with the sole regards to the two whom you lay your own for.

then comes the golden one. a dragon before your time - before most creatures’ times. if you’d made kings bow, she’d made the world submit to her will. that was, before she forgone it all and went into slumber. to think the golden one, fraener, would have allowed herself to be awoken by measly wars and to let a measly creature ride her- you must have caused the greatest of grief.

“child, your eyes scream anguish,” her voice rings loud and clear in your head as you zoom past her, barely missing her claws.

you do not respond.

“you’ve given birth to a life,” she sounds fascinated. delighted.

“i do not wish to fight a sister,” you project your own voice onto her conscience.

her growl thunders through the sky as she pins you down with her foot, “then you will die?”

“fool!” the cloaked wizard hisses from somewhere in the mountains, “get up! fight! or we’ll go for your child next! we know where they are.”

“i wish for a world where my child no longer needs to hide, please,” you whimper.

“your sacrifice is noble, young one,” her claws break your hard scales, you hear the howl of a dying beast.

the wizard’s incessant demands blur in your ears as the flames in your chest spreads through your body, burning your soul and eating you alive. in your last moments, you recall fraener’s ‘rest well,’ bid before petals peek through your scales. pastel pink, deep red and violet carnations fill your sight before you heart bursts.

“what meaning does carnations bear?” yoongi walks over to you from the kitchen, stacks of sandwich piled on top of a plate and placed on the coffee table in front of you.

“admiration... affection... devotion... a mother’s undying love,” a smile tucks on the corners of your lips.

x

min yoongi thinks he’s accomplished enough. acknowledgement of the magical community and treaties protecting beings mixed by blood.

he manages to protect his child from the hands of those who wish to take her away from him. fought an ancestor who went against him and succeeded.

he resides in the mountains, not too far from your dwelling. surrounded by fae’s and rock mountains and wallerbogs. she’s five centuries old and rather use her wings to catch the fae’s in hide-and-seeks rather than use her legs. the galaxy in her eyes never dim - not when she woke up without her mother greeting her with a kiss good morning, not when she suddenly stops giggling at the stick man yoongi made to keep her company when the first growl of a dragon tears through the sky and not when the last whimper echo throughout the skies before the golden one ended their ancient one.

the world started moving again. but his heart stopped along with yours that day.

the city you’d fought fraener in is left in ruins with wild carnations covering every crack of the earth - pluck one and two more grow.

“mama!” shar squeals and yoongi thinks he’s gone mad.

a woman is laughing and hugging his child when he’d cast a spell over the forest to make it impossible for those with hostile intentions to even pass through. let alone come all the way into its heart.

you look beautiful, laughing and lifting your child up in the air. trickles of melodic sounds falling off your lips.

yoongi doesn’t even want to know how - he gathers you in his arms, feels you against him, breathes in the familiar sweet scent of your existence.

only after he’s kissed you all over your face as you giggle, does he asks, “how?”

you show him the traces of scales that are still red and fresh on your skin - “i don’t know, the last thing i remember was fighting the golden one and then i woke up as a whelp somewhere in northern russia in a cave- i came as soon as i could transform into a human.”

it took awhile - a few decades to find your way back. but where your heart and soul lies, that is where you’ll always return to. no matter where you are, not matter what you are.

you’ll always find way back to your witch and little seedling.

x

note. this a request for the drabble game i’m holding. this is a stand alone, complementary piece to my long fic called wartime child! (jjk).

anyways, hope yall enjoyed!

[uwua3]

Yo! Can i ask for a cute Pirate AU with an adventure seeking MC pirate captain, who, when she and her crew are making a stop at some port, meets her childhood friend, Tenma, with whom she has romantic tension, only Tenma is a big blushing tsundere mess, and MC is verrrryyy oblivious to his blushiness, but accidentally innocently flirts with him?? If that makes sense? Also oops the soldiers have seen me, the wanted pirate, wanna get out of here and join my crew?

summary: a deal is made between a pirate captain haunted by their legacy and an island medium who wants to go home

warnings: alcohol, death (mentions), cops/police, crime, fights (physical/arguments), fires, ghosts, military, near–death experiences, pirates, slow-burn, swords, unrequited love/love triangle

author’s note: thank you so much for your patience requesting this pirate story~ i did my best to do this justice, as i love pirates more than anything! .*:ﾟ（｀・ω・´）ゝﾟ:*. this was a jolly good time to write, thank you! (please let me know if you would like a part 02 to this, as it ran longer than expected)! thank you!! :D

word count: 6,163

music: ship in a bottle – fin

captain, let’s make a deal.

☀️🌻 sumeragi tenma

even out at sea, you couldn’t escape the fire that destroyed your town years ago. the fire that made you become a pirate captain

you were born by a local village by the coast, where the air tasted like salt no matter what and trade was your community’s main economy

it was home. a place where everyone knew each other as family, where the sun was hot upon even warmer smiles and the euphoric laughter of children surrounded the island. this was the land of the happy, the free, and the united

it wasn’t until the damn navy—your first enemy until death—came

according to heresay, pirates were supposed to plunder and pillage without mercy. pirates were the villain and yet, what would the navy be then? after what they did to you, they were anything but heroes

yonaguni was made of tall palm trees that provided shade during the eternal summer that sunburnt your skin, floating markets by the pier with tricky elderly and learning apprentinces in the family business, and rare wildlife not found anywhere else

now, it was nothing more than hell. you could remember it all—how the flames licked the open wounds from navy seamen, the screams of the innocent replacing what would’ve been last words meant for decades later, the sound of crashing trees blocking every available escape route as birds flew away in the distance

you were just a yonaguni native, and now, there was nothing left of your hometown. it was permanently erased from world history forever, and you were the sole survivor of the island, making you the most wanted vigilante alive

it had been years since you last had a nightmare of the attack. was haunting your brain and traumautizing you for life during every waking hour not enough?

but, you knew the answer why you couldn’t stop mourning the loss of yonaguni

it was nearing the anniversary of your friend, sumeragi tenma’s, death

and, as you climbed to the crow’s nest with the power of the ocean running through your salted veins and spite overwhelming you in the deepest, darkest parts of yourself, you could see it over the horizon

the navy said dead men tell no tales, but you were alive, and you would be a legend

“all hands ahoy or you’ll be given no quarter!” (everyone on deck or you’ll be shown no mercy)

“aye, captain!” your crew replied eagerly, their loyalty unwavering and strong as always. you stood atop of the main mast, surrounded by vast ocean bordering a blue, cloudless sky. even without your telescope, you could see everything in the world

beneath you sounded the swing of the lines (rope) against the wind before two feet landed in the crow’s nest. the sailor had the type of agility that only came from a boy born on sea

“cap, don’t tell me ya forgot about me?” your quartermaster, rurikawa yuki, grinned (a rare sight that only came when the ocean smelt strongest of salt and treasure), standing at the ledge whilst holding onto the lines with one hand. any other novice would’ve immediately fallen off with how strong the random gusts of wind were, but yuki was an enigma and your second in command for a reason

“ahoy, yuki! so long as the jolly rodger waves, this crew will always be ready to set sail.” you responded, sliding down the mast to be in the crow’s nest as well. yuki just rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning upon your frame like it was nothing

“don’t hornswaggle (cheat) me, cap. what are you thinking about?” yuki read you like a map, as expected of the second best cartographer (after master boatswain muku, of course) in all the seven seas. you tried to remain present in the moment, with the wind flowing and sky clear, but it wasn’t enough

“... tell me, yuki. is it so easy to read the distraught upon my face?” you joked, but it fell flat as yuki raised an unimpressed eyebrow at your facade. yuki didn’t take bullshit from anyone, not even his own captain

“aye, do not be acting as if you’re feeding the fish (about to die), captain.” yuki carefully watched if any of their small crew was eavesdropping, but the rest were doing their proper tasks for the morning. cartographer muku was happily reading directions to helmsman misumi. the two were a fantastic pair, considering the “sky” ship hasn’t sunken

surgeon kazunari was dutifully sanitizing his medical tools besides them, taking some time to laugh loudly at some story misumi was dramatically reenacting as he spun the wheel skillfully

“boom about!” yuki called out without looking away, already feeling it in his bones moments before anyone else could. his intuition was unheard of, and you watched no one hesitate as they ducked just in time

“sorry~!” misumi responded without any apologetic tone to his voice whatsoever. his sailor’s grin was infectious and wide, a smile only those accustomed to the fatal winds and waves of the ocean could make. just like everyone else on the “sky” ship, they all were forged by the sea

“smartly make way to land before i toss you off myself!” yuki snapped, but it held no malice. he rolled his eyes unimpressed when kazunari laughed at misumi’s sarcastic salute, knowing pirates did no such navy thing without mockery

“oh, dear yuki, how could i drown with you by my side?” you reached over to ruffle his hair, the precarious creak of the wooden mast the last thing on your mind as yuki swatted at your hand, irritated by the littlest of things as always

“you’re right, i’ll have your head first anyways.” yuki said with no malice, giving you a small frown as his calculating eyes glanced over you once more, trying to find any cracks in your confident visage. when he found nothing, he climbed back down, seemingly unsatisfied when you didn’t break under his stare

(you were one of the few on the crew who didn’t flinch. the other was misumi, who just had no fear towards anything, so it wasn’t personal. after all, misumi was the finest swashbuckler around!)

ahead, your acute sight narrowed in on the growing formation in the distance, your gut tensing before realizing it was far too large to be another ship

with a grin, you hanged over the edge (a habit that no longer scares your crew), your voice amplified as it was carried downward by the wind. it was to be expected, of course, as a yonaguni native, your town always had a special connection to nature that no one else did

“my men, turn your heads and look forward into the horizon! what do you see?”

“land, captain!”

“then let us sail faster! the sooner we reach the shores, the quicker you all can take a damn shower!”

with a shared lighthearted laugh, everyone focused on their role and position towards the land mass ahead. whether it was the possibility of smelling like something else other than a siren’s cove or something more, you smiled, forgetting about last night’s sleepless disturbances

up ahead was fukusaki, sky crew’s next location for the night

after three months or so on sea, your crew’s resources were dwindling (much faster since everyone had a bottomless appetite). it was time to visit a port town to stock up and set sail the next sunrise

sure, it was a rushed habit of yours, but it was never good to stay in one place for too long. that came with the risk of losing again...

besides, who liked a crew of pirates to suddenly come to the town square in their stained clothing and gleaming swords?

after barely securing a place to tie down the great beauty known as “sky”, entering fukusaki was like any other town. merchants upon the docks were experts at haggling prices, civilians went by with their day to day life, and the sun burned everyone’s skin just the same

but as you placed your leather boot upon the wooden dock, something inside you turned. like something had suddenly shifted in the town but you had no idea what

yuki seemed to have felt the same thing, even if his facial expression didn’t change. as kazunari kept muku from fighting with a seller for a map of the local area (misumi was unfortunately encouraging him), yuki inched closer to you, his brows furrowed

“you feel that? something isn’t right.” yuki bluntly stated, eyes scanning his surroundings like usual. except he didn’t know what he was looking for, so a frustrated sigh left his lips

“aye, feels as if someone’s running a rig (playing a trick) on us...” you murmured under your breath, careful not to alarm the returning muku with haughtiness ablaze in his eyes and sheepishness from an apologizing but relieved kazunari (it was hard to believe muku used to be shy prior to joining)

“keep a look out. let you know if somethin’s amiss.” yuki peeled away, checking in with muku asking where the closest tavern was. at the mention of alcohol, misumi jumped in, rambling about how he had already talked to a local about all the best spots

you took a moment to take a deep breath in, the scent of palm trees and fruit replacing your usual endless seas. it wasn’t unsettling, just new. your sea legs itched to return to somewhere always changing, always new, but you knew you couldn’t do that to your friends

you straightened your back and walked with the confidence of a true pirate captain, swinging both your arms around kazunari and misumi, peering down at the map with an easy smile

“alright my hearties, where to?”

this gut feeling could wait, you had a few hours to relax before everything turned upside down

of course the captain got the most inconvenient yet boring jobs that could’ve been assigned

(yuki didn’t look sorry as he happily enjoyed your childish huff at being the grocery shopper, knowing how much you hated to interact with people outside of the crew)

due to your very limited people skills, you awkwardly tried to summon your confidence to come back around all the fukusaki shop vendors. when you were with your crew, all eyes were on you and how high your head was held. but, when alone... a captain was nothing without its crew, you supposed

a messily scrawled list by kazunari was in your hand (never ask a doctor to write anything) as you tried to decipher the words, holding it up to the sun to figure out what the hell he wanted

after getting the main idea of what each person wanted within budget, you stood on the outskirts of the town square, desperately trying to decide what was the best way to approach this situation

you couldn’t appear helpless or confused! how were you supposed to haggle in this state of mind?! as you slowly spun around in a circle to view all of the sellers before settling on a rather small, unimpressive stand

maybe that meant cheaper prices! you thought cleverly, walking over with the poise of a seasoned native. with a neutral expression, you reached a wooden display with a certain swagger to your step

however... there was nothing. as you stood in the front of the set-up and realized no one was there, you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. what kind of service was this? was there no one actually here to sell anything?

before you could leave, a flash of orange appeared in front of you, purple eyes wide as if surprised they even received a customer. “w-wait!” he called out, nearly falling over his own table. this kid would clearly not make it upon a ship, you thought

for whatever reason, you stopped, looking over your shoulder with an unimpressed expression at the simple boy. he was tall and lean, wearing a bandana around his orange hair and an unbuttoned shirt. it was a casual appearance unfit for a merchant

“what is it? i’ve got places to be and there’s nothing here to be sold.” you stated, a wave of shock passing over his face before solidifying in a stubborn crease in his forehead

“huh? what are you talking about? haven’t you come here to get rid of that?”

when he reached out, you jolted back, a surge of energy visible in your body. you felt that strongly, what the hell did this random merchant do to you?!

“w—calm down! stop moving or i can’t remove the yokai! you’re making this difficult.” he demanded roughly, his proper words clipped from an accent unlike any other on this island. there was a certain... twang, to his vocabulary. as if it didn’t sit right, as if it was on the tip of his tongue

so much for customer service! you didn’t listen, dodging his hand like your life depended on it. as you ducked beneath his arm, you gripped his bicep with a death glare. at your narrowed eyes, the orange-haired boy gulped and stared back with astonishment

clearly, fukusaki natives weren’t this rude

“yokai? what the hell are you blubberin’ about, kid?” you questioned, your patience thin like a century-old rope worn down by salt. he set his lips in a straight line, as if trying to assess if you were serious or not. when you didn’t budge, he yanked his arm back and rubbed the sore spot, giving in

“ghosts. you got more spirits than normal around you, they’ve been there for a long time.”

you were about to retort, but fell silent at the remembrance of yonaguni. had your ancestors been with you all this time? you almost couldn’t believe you’ve been actually haunted by their deaths for this long

“i have no ghosts. do not try to scam me.” you flatly said before turning on your heel, intent on leaving the possibility of ghosts behind before tenma took a hold on your arm this time

“but, they’re trying to tell you—”

before tenma could finish, an irritated and offended voice boomed just down the cobblestone pathway

“you dare lay your hand on our captain?!”

“yuki, wait!” the crew clambered after him, hands always short of his shirt fabric as yuki’s sword made a sickening sound when pulled out of its sheath. the orange-haired boy let go immediately, attempting to make a run for it before coming face to face with misumi, whose previous smile was cold and nonexistent

it was as if the other merchants disappeared, fearing a start of a fight would be terrible for business. tenma was caught in the middle of a 5-person circle, with yuki pointing the tip of his sword at his throat

“state your name and business for grabbing our captain like that!” yuki was adamant on proving his sword was real by putting it closer to the boy’s adam’s apple. he tried not to shake under the pressure, but you noticed how his feet had no shoes and looked ready to run to anywhere but here

“um... t—johnny. it’s johnny, and i simply belong to a family of fukusaki mediums, that’s all.” johnny(?) said, as if trying to convince himself. all of you secretly exchanged a look, trying to decide whether or not to believe this so-called johnny

“you see ghosts?” yuki scoffed, his position already clear on the issue. ever since you two have met, you knew yuki never believed in anything involving the supernatural. after all, so many mysteries were hidden in the ocean, yuki doubted anything could scare him on land

but, you... you’re starting to believe johnny as you notice his eyes waver towards you. maybe not so much you, but whatever was surrounding you

“yes, sir. i can communicate with them as well. ever since i was a young boy, i’ve brought peace to the dead.” your head snapped towards him at that, something inside of you turning

that boy could bring your ancestors peace? could it be too good to be true? as if hearing your thoughts, johnny nodded to reaffirm your beliefs

before anyone else can join in on the questioning, you held your hand up and everyone fell silent, waiting for your next words. you could easily tell yuki to kill this boy and he would... but you won’t

“how much are your services?”

johnny blinked, clearly not used to this question as he mentally calculated whatever in his head. “uh... i usually don’t get paid.”

“if we took you on your ship, how much then?” (you immediately hushed a protesting yuki and wary crew)

“my payment wouldn’t be money.” johnny quickly said, almost shocking himself with how fast that answer came. you raised an eyebrow at that, about to question his terms before muku turned, eyebrows furrowed

“there’s someone coming.” muku whispered in a hush, immediately on guard as everyone shifted to a defensive position. at the first sound of a boot on ground, kazunari’s eyes widened. a telltale sign of the cop’s traditional uniform, which kazunari knew better than most

“go! go! go!” you ordered, everyone taking off running. without thinking, you took a hold of johnny’s hand. he squeezed it without flinching, turning and impressively staying by your side even as you got faster and faster

you were fast, but you despised running with a passion. if you closed your eyes longer than a blink, you could almost smell the smoke and crack of the tree trunks. for some reason, johnny smelt like coconut, and that humored you to a certain extent as your crew ran for their lives from the officers. someone must’ve alerted local authorities nearby...

even with a map, muku was lost to the island’s complex system. despite being quick on his feet, muku’s eyes frantically analyzed the outdated lines and pressed his lips into a straight line out of frustration. you knew you should’ve stepped in, but what could you have done?

“follow me!” johnny whispered hurriedly, turning into a waypoint before stopping and looking back. your crew subconsciously looked towards you as well, as if asking if this fukasaki native was trustworthy

though, it’s not like you had a choice now

you ran with johnny, the rest of your crew following suit. when you reached a dead end, you expected this to be a mistake before johnny nimbly flung himself up the ivy-covered wall, landing with a hard thud as if he hadn’t done so in a long time. ignoring the pain, johnny extended his hand an impressive height away

“grab my hand and we’ll be free!” pirates weren’t one to say no to freedom (or put all their coins in one chest...), so you got down to provide a boost to your crew mates. it wasn’t a time to be noble, so they all took your support without complaining, easily being able to run past johnny

when it was your turn, the sound of polished boots grew increasingly closer, much to your chagrin. you backed up quietly, gulping and trying not to look behind you as you glanced up. both johnny and yuki were standing there, their hands extended as you got a running start

you closed your eyes, breathed in the imaginary smoke, and leaped, feeling the grip of both their hands upon yours as they helped you up. just as you ducked beneath the foliage, you breathed a sigh of relief as the officers ran by without sparing a second look

when you opened your eyes, you noticed johnny was still holding your hand, his fist tight around yours as you could practically feel his heartbeat through leaning on his shoulder

you got up to thank johnny before noticing yuki’s uncharacteristic quietness and the way his eyes looked between you and johnny... as if he was betrayed

you didn’t think more of it despite the sinking feeling in your stomach

it was a night to celebrate! escaping the cops was no easy feat, especially on a foreign island. your crew, who had taken a liking to johnny’s ability to hold his own, invited him to drinks (not that they needed guidance to the safest tavern, of course...)

you nursed your own drink of choice at a rickety table with the crew, watching as they became less like pirates and more like their own ages with a few drinks and good music. yuki didn’t drink, which was something that had always occurred no matter where they went

johnny was flustered under all the attention, or it was the alcohol everyone insisted he could keep down. you stifled a chuckle when kazunari hooked his arm around tenma’s neck and ruffled his hair, the look upon his face priceless

you took a sip before lowering the cup’s rim, noticing yuki’s wary gaze. he met your eye with a frown, as if hesitating on what to say next. once again, how strange

“captain,” at that, you tried not to outwardly wince. it wasn’t common for yuki to be so... formal with you, at least. “do you truly intend on bringing this stranger with us?”

“johnny is no stranger anymore, yuki. he saved our lives, we are indebted to him.” you flatly said, glancing at johnny once more. yuki huffed, clearly disagreeing with your opinion as he rolled his eyes

“we would’ve been just fine without him. plus, he’s a medium! how do you know he’s the real deal, anyways?”

“i just... know.” you tried to elaborate, but it fell on deaf ears. there were some parts of your past you just couldn’t elaborate on, some parts that wouldn’t make sense to a non-yonaguni native

yuki slammed his water on the wooden table, a sound barely distinguishable in the rowdy atmosphere before getting up with a skid of the stool. he silently left, no doubt heading back to the docks where the stars shined the brightest and moon made things shrouded in dark more visible

you got up and followed without speaking another word. the crew knew disagreements between you & yuki were far and few, so there was no time to ask silly questions

when you reached the outside, the salt in the air and muffled sound of everyone having fun made you stop. behind you, you noticed the door didn’t slam completely as a quick-footed pair of feet made their way besides you

“are... you okay?” johnny asked, his hands in his linen pockets as you exhaled, nodding as you leaned onto the wall. johnny stiffly stood by the door, as if guarding it

“yeah, yeah. i am... just a little tussle, that’s all.” you sounded as if you were trying to convince yourself, but neither of you pointed it out. a few moments of awkward silence passed, before johnny cleared his throat

“okay, i didn’t hear nothin’. just... heard the spirits around you get loud.”

there he went again about the ghosts and spirits! you subconsciously patted your hair down flat, turning to look at johnny with yuki-like skepticism in your narrowed eyes

“how can you see there are ghosts on me? how do i know you’re not pullin’ my leg?” you suspiciously questioned, watching as johnny bristled under the attention. it seemed as if the island natives didn’t question his credibility as a medium

“you know i’m right. you have tens, maybe more, spirits attached to you. i can help you take them away, for a price, of course.”

“which is?”

“i want to find an island lost to me long ago.”

if you blinked, you could’ve sworn you were talking to a past-version of yourself. why did that request seem so familiar?

“do you know its name?”

“nay... my family refuses to tell me anything about where i’m from. all i know is the navy is the reason i lost my parents.”

“mine too.” you admitted with a breath and the conversation paused, you two sharing an understanding expression of sympathy but unshakable faith. you two understood each other despite knowing one another for a few hours

“then, is it settled?” johnny held out his hand, which you took with a firm grip. his palms were soft for an islander, funny enough. he must’ve thought differently since this was one of the few times you took off your leather gloves

“as long as you bring peace to my ancestors, you’re comin’ with me.”

when the hours became late and you ultimately decided everyone passed their limit a long time ago, you and johnny led them all to their barracks with laughs and humor in the air

when you reached the docks, yuki was barely noticeable in the night as he stood upon the mast of the ship, his hair waving in the wind like a flag

he didn’t look at you, not once, so you didn’t climb up. how could you when johnny was holding your hand with his eyes flickering back to you, or whatever was around you?

you introduced johnny to his new quarters and left him to be, feeling free for once in your life that night

morning came with the unfurling of your sails and your position in the crow’s nest. the sky was blue and cloudless, just like everyone predicted as the sea welcomed your crew into its arms

“ahoy, my hearties! off we go to find our next treasure!” you commanded joyously, the crew hurrah-ing in return at your enthusiasm. like most pirates did, your crew’s goal when off-land was to find a ship to rob and make off with their goods

you turned to the side, about to say something before realizing yuki wasn’t next to you. he must’ve slept in, that’s all. you didn’t question it even if he was always on time the years you knew him

disguising your expression of disappointment, you left your crew to their own means, sliding down the mast as per usual. when you landed, you noticed johnny standing awkwardly to the side as everyone was doing their own job

“hey, johnny! what are you muckin’ around for?” you questioned lightheartedly, slamming your freshly-shined boots (after an unfortunate drunk throw-up incident) upon the oak boards. johnny flinched from the sound, unaccustomed to the constantly-busy atmosphere of a large ship

“do you... need any help? i kinda, feel guilty just lazing about in my quarters.” johnny confessed, a red flush against his face as he rubbed the back of his permanently-sunburned neck. you were taken back for a moment, not used to being offered help

“um... you seem to know how to throw a person off their rhythm! i have nothing on mind as of now, hmmm....” after much consideration, you snapped your fingers with a start. “perhaps consider shadowing me for today! get the feel of a captain’s life—”

“no need, captain. i will take him off your hands for you.”

you turned to see yuki besides you, his feet silent and eyes attentive as always. you sensed the tension still imbedded between you two, gulping as you tugged at the collar of your shirt. for some reason, you immediately felt disappointed at the missing opportunity of tenma being with you

why were you feeling this way?! there was no reason to think like that as a busy, efficient pirate captain!

“thank you, yuki. return him in one piece, alright?” you joked, turning away to review what needed to be done that day. as you left, you didn’t notice yuki place a cold grip on johnny’s shoulder with an uncharacteristically eerie stoic pose

johnny looked after you, wondering what was behind that shroud of spirits who wanted nothing more than to see you freed of them

“you’re quite lucky the captain has taken quite a liking to you, johnny, was it?”

yuki & johnny found themselves ending the ship’s tour in the underground of the main deck, located along the cannons placed in their corresponding holes. the smell of gunpowder and flint was nearly suffocating, but yuki moved with ease and seemed to revel in johnny’s tight expression

“y-yes... the captain is very kind and charitable to take me on board.” johnny managed to get out without coughing, his eyes inspecting the materials and wondered how loud it truly was during battle

“you agreed to come so soon. you have no family of your own?” yuki asked innocently, mindlessly fixing the placements of the bombs behind the barrels. johnny shook his head, explaining it wasn’t an emotional attachment he had to fukusaki

“how... suspiciously fortunate.” yuki deadpanned, suddenly whipping around with a blank stare. it caught johnny off guard, who nearly stumbled back into a cannon. yuki wasn’t armed, but his tense demeanor and personality change was jarring

“listen, kid, i’ve got no clue who you are, but you have no reason to be upon this ship.” with every word, yuki seemed to come closer until his pointer finger pushed in the center of johnny’s chest

“you may have fooled everyone else, but our captain has always been too naive. i see right through you, johnny. who are you, really?”

johnny shuddered, backed against the wall and desperately holding onto anything that can keep his wobbly legs up. he didn’t know if it was the rocky seas or yuki’s simmering anger, but he felt like he was staring straight into one of those cannons

“i’m johnny, an island medium who sees ghosts on your captain. it is my duty to let them go, that’s all.”

a moment passed, before yuki took a few steps back. before johnny could react, he found the tip of a real sword pointed at his neck once again

“you’re lying, i know it. do not make me ask you again, who are you?”

johnny tried to remain placid in the face of a weapon, but he gritted his teeth and couldn’t help himself

“why the hell does it matter to you? are you in love with your captain or something?!”

silence, then yuki lowered his sword. he sheathed it back, before turning and leaving without another word. johnny let out a deep breath, sinking to the floor as he closed his eyes

if johnny listened hard enough, he could hear your spirits try to communicate with him. but, their voices were garbled and unlike anything he’s heard before. who were you and why was he here?

the first time you & johnny met in terms of spirits was two weeks after a pattern of sleepless nights

he already found you teetering close to the edge, your hands folded as you searched for something, or someone, past the blackened seas

it was as if some savage sea monster had spilt its ink-like blood into the waters, the once blue surface that reflected lucky skies now murky and as mysterious as the dark side of the moon

with your usual guarded glint now gone, you still seemed just as capable to be the one responsible for such dark seas

“good evening.” johnny mumbled lowly, placing the lantern besides his feet as he made his way next to you. you hummed, not particularly fazed by his sudden appearance despite not paying attention. it’s as if you had eyes in the back of your head, like a sea monster

“i suppose fukusaki isn’t used to the rocking of wooden ships?” you retorted, to which johnny sharply exhaled through his nose, a sign of amusement at your observation

“nay, but... i haven’t been able to properly maintain my sleep schedule ever since boarding. your spirits... are rather loud for ghosts.”

you full-on laughed at this, disturbing the intimate atmosphere between you two. johnny couldn’t help but smile at your worn-down exterior. you presented yourself like you were made of a glass bottle, but you were as intricate as a carved artisan ship

“try living with them your whole life, boy, then you can start complaining about their volume.” you jested lightheartedly, offering a soft smile at the newest recruit. as you leaned back onto the railing of the ship, you watched the constant surface of the waves, as if you could anchor your endless thoughts to davey jone’s locker

johnny mimicked your position, his elbow knocking into yours. his hands were much too soft for a seasoned sailor, you noticed this in the dim lantern light. for a moment, you let your impulses take over and you wondered how they felt against yours

“pardon my words, but when will you let me speak to them? i can never find you through the day...” johnny began to ask, but trailed off when your salted eyes and weariness became apparent in the way you exhaled quietly

“it is not your fault but mine, johnny. this is my ship and i am the captain, that’s all. i cannot allow myself to suddenly become weak in case i am needed.” you spoke like a true hero, well, as much of a hero a pirate could be

johnny didn’t exactly understand, considering he just got up and left his entire life on a whim of a promise to find out who he was. but, he nodded anyways, watching blurred movements of entities swirl around your head like troubled smoke

“what about now? will you let me—?” when johnny reached out, you immediately stepped back, your lips pressed in a straight line as if restraining your true reaction

“you look for every reason to touch me, don’t you?” you tried to force it out like it was nothing, but it was clear how your boots twisted like they were prepared to run away

when was the last time someone physically comforted you in any sense? or... comforted you at all?

“captain...” johnny mumbled, eyes wide with pity and you couldn’t stand it. he called you captain, but he didn’t revere you like a typical person would. he didn’t flinch at your sword or head held high, it was unnerving

“what is the purpose of having a crew if they cannot help you through this?”

the wind wailing against your ears reminded you of how little time there was in a day, and how the sun would rise soon and this cycle of pretending everything was okay would begin again

it was maddening, to live the same day again and again with no change

johnny perhaps was someone you looked forward to, a diversion from the expected

“do you consider yourself apart of my crew, then?” when johnny took a moment to think, you wondered what he was remembering. was it the night where misumi pretended to fall over board to scare everyone or was it when kazunari didn’t react to seeing a skeleton that time? was it when muku could predict every type of weather for the next day without fail or when yuki finally cracked at a joke after a hour of pretending nothing was funny?

or, was it when you two shared glances across the deck, clinked your glasses a little too long, or when your hands ghosted over another when pulling lines?

“yes, your crew is my own as well. and like them, i wish to help you, if you’d let me.”

you always found yourself unsure around johnny, unaware of how to respond in a way worthy of your pirate captain title. as you hesitated, johnny looked you in the eyes and his eyes reminded you of storm clouds thundering in the distance

“why else would you take me on the ‘sky’? if you didn’t want help?”

perhaps those were words you would reveal later, but you couldn’t bring yourself to share the real answer. it was a gut feeling that your world would be turned upside down, and you were right when you felt your throat dry at johnny’s hopeful gaze

johnny continued on, straightening his usual bent posture and his voice carried, like he was one with nature. as if they supported him unconditionally

“i know this is your own battle to win and this is your ship and you are my—our captain, but please... let’s make a deal.”

you stood, intrigued, as you witnessed a side of johnny never seen before. once meek, once easily intimidated, now talked to you like an equal

“let’s promise to say things we both really feel. be honest with me, do you want me to help? to remove the spirits and let them move on?” when you nodded, johnny let out a breath of relief and moved closer, gathering your hands in his. when you didn’t pull away and only tensed, he spoke as if he was sure things would change

“i can help you, i can make them go away. you bring me back to my home, i let your spirits go home. deal?”

“is that how you truly feel?”

“and more.” johnny’s eyes glanced down, and you felt your heart stutter as if the surface rocked

“i feel the same way. i wish to help you.”

that night, you remembered for the first time in a long time, a captain was nothing without its crew

[if-you-built-yourself-a-myth]

hey would you write a marauders/jily ice skating!au?

I'm not sure if this is what you meant, but I hope it's close enough. AU where Peter never gave up James and Lily, they never died, Sirius never went to Azkaban, and the prophecy wasn't about Harry. And they ice skate when it's all over.

The Great Lake froze over for the first time since the war ended. James looked out across its vast expanse, its rivered end tapering into trees on the other side. He never thought he’d see the day. Hogwarts cast a thin shadow onto the lake’s bank, where students, parents, and alumni gathered with their ice skates and screaming young children. His own son, little Harry, toddled along in front of Remus and Sirius, the pointer fingers of each grasped in his chubby hands. Peter took up the rear. Further past, the Weasleys dragged their youngest in circles. Baby Ron. He was around Harry’s age; James thought it might be nice if they were friends.

He turned to Lily beside him. She was as beautiful as she’d always been, her shining red hair and unguarded smile. He didn’t think he would ever get used to having her hand clasped in his own—it was surprising enough that someone so amazing existed at all, let alone at the end of a war.

But the war was over. And here she stood. His Lily. His lovely, lovely Lily.

“I’m going to fall,” she told him, taking the first tentative step onto the ice. Remus and Sirius were naturals, but the Potters… not so much. “James, don’t let go of me.” Her nose was nipped red in the winter air, her voice muffled by her striped scarf.

“I’m not letting go,” he said. His own skates were wobbly.

“Go slowly, go slowly.”

“I’m no good either.”

They did their best to synchronize their steps and glide forward in short bursts. Standing on two blades sounded much easier than it was in practice. Ahead, Remus and Sirius had lifted Harry from the surface of the lake to spin him around and around, until Sirius planted the toddler on his shoulders and took off skating with Remus at his heels. Peter, less steady, stumbled along behind them. It made James’s heart warm to see his best friends bonding with his child.

Lily followed his gaze. “I keep telling Remus they should adopt,” she said. “He keeps saying Harry is plenty for him and Sirius.”

“Classic Moony,” said James.

Harry let out a garbled string of baby talk, his face broken into the most carefree smile James had ever seen. He reached his tiny hands for the sky like he could grasp the clouds. On a day like today, it seemed possible that he could. Harry shared his appearance with James, really, the young James who pulled pranks with his best friends and loved Lily Evans with childish adoration. He already had the same messy hair, the same tanned skin, and, according to the muggle doctors Lily saw, the same shitty eyesight. James should have seen himself when he looked at Harry. He only saw Lily.

Lily loved to look at the clouds. They hadn’t had time for it during the war. Now they had all the time in the world. James tilted his head upward, and noticed in his peripheral vision that Lily did the same. It complicated their skating pursuits more than it should have. The cloud directly over their heads was an old book, followed by a man riding a hippogriff off into some mountains.

“But it would be nice, don’t you think?” Lily said, after a while. Her ankle shifted weirdly. She tripped and almost took James down with her, but continued to speak as if nothing had happened. “A playmate for Harry?”

James laughed. “If you want, I’ll talk to Sirius about it. Anything for you.”

“It would be very sweet.”

“I will let them know. Though, they like you so much, I think they’d cave if you asked again.”

“Sirius would.” Lily pulled her scarf down from her mouth to plant a kiss on James’s cheek. “Remus wouldn’t.”

“Always the rational one.”

Lily got her sea-legs—ice-legs—before James did. It was one of the things he loved most about her; she caught onto almost any skill within an hour of attempting it. He spent so much of his Hogwarts career trying to beat out Sirius and the Slytherins in his classes, but he’d never been able to best Lily Evans. She did him the service of not releasing his arm as she glided along, taking longer strides than before, and forcing him to keep up with her footwork.

In no time, they were center-ice. Hogwarts, while still huge, seemed so much smaller when they were so far away. It did not cast a shadow out here. Here, there was only the sun above, lingering clouds, and the buzzing life of so many wizards in one location. Ah, Hogwarts. How could he have known that it would lead to the happiness he had now?

They came to a stop rather slowly, letting the momentum die out as it pleased. James’s skates tilted back and forth as he tried to stand still. He should invent a spell that kept them from breaking his ankles—with a little help from Remus, it wouldn’t be that hard. Their innovative spell mixing techniques had transferred from pranking to lifehacking with phenomenal success. Lily stared out at the other skaters.

“It could have been us,” she whispered. She didn’t have to elaborate.

James and Lily were in hiding with Harry because of a prophecy about a boy born at the end of July. Sirius held their location first, using a binding magic that the Dark Lord himself could not break. He transferred it to Peter when he thought that was the safer course of action.

Before the night it happened, James might have considered Peter his least-close friend in the Marauders. They did not speak much in their last years of school, even less with the war on, and Peter never agreed to any risky operations before Sirius approached him with the proposition. But that night, when Voldemort knew that Peter knew… Peter stared the world’s darkest wizard dead in the eye and refused. He barely escaped with his life.

“Thank you, Moony,” he’d said, when the group saw each other next. “If I couldn’t turn into a rat, I would’ve bit it for sure.”

In a rage, Voldemort sought the next viable option on his list. He arrived at the Longbottom house to virtually no magical resistance. Frank and Alice died protecting their child. Word had it that Voldemort tried to kill the baby, Neville, as well, and the curse had rebounded. The only damage to Neville was a scar like lightning on his collarbone, the Boy Who Lived.

“But it wasn’t,” said James. He stroked a finger down Lily’s cheek. “It wasn’t us.”

“Harry could’ve been the one.”

“But he wasn’t.”

Lily took a deep breath. She released his arm for a moment, edged her way to face him, and clasped his hands instead. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I wanted to wait—just to make sure he was gone. You-Know-Who. And he is. So.”

“The war is over,” James agreed.

Just saying the words out loud made his heart leap for joy in his chest. It was over. The prophecy came true, just as Dumbledore promised that it would, and Voldemort was defeated. No more Death Eaters in Diagon Alley. No more late nights stalking the streets for sympathizers. No more holding wands to his friends and making them prove they were themselves, no more casting protective spells outside his house every evening, no more hiding away with their little baby while Sirius, Peter, and Remus fought. No more. Here was his family.

James thought back on his late nights in the library with Remus and Peter during his first year. How can I get Lily to fall in love with me? he begged Remus. Tell me how I can do it. Remus had said something largely unhelpful and probably sarcastic; that part didn’t matter. James wanted to go back in time and shake himself by the shoulders, or give that boy a pat on the back. She loves you now, he would say. She loves you and it’s better than could ever have imagined. And himself in fifth year, in sixth year, all those lingering glances. She loves you and the war is over.

He wasn’t afraid of the world anymore. He looked at Lily. He looked at Harry, carried by a posse of scarved godfathers with a need for speed. This was a safe place for all of them to build their lives. The war is over.

“James,” Lily said, her voice like hot chocolate after a day in the cold. He wanted to take her happiness and trap it in a bottle. “James, I’m pregnant.”

And the moment was complete. Because nothing could ever be any better than this.

[gentlemancrow]

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately??  Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist.  SO HERE YOU GO!  Read it here or head on over to AO3 below!  And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings!  Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world.  A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could.  Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn.  He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever.  And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders.  Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition.  He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine.  They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect.  They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities.  Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.  

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon.  Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on.  This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art.  That was the least of it.  He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.  

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer.  Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner.  He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound.  He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth.  It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing.  Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal.  A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered.  Or so he thought.  Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him.  It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn?  Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up.  Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes.  Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay.  Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me.  LOOK at me, Jon!  Stay with me!  Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command.  He had never once said please because it was never an option.  Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right.  Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon.  I’m still here.  I’ve got you.  I’m going to fix this.  I’m going to get us out of here.  We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist.  Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead.  It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later.  Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home.  Not him.  He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful.  No not him.  Not The Archivist.  How could he have ever known that?  Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind.  A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses.  And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too?  Would not night still come and the stars still shine?  The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway.  Something that nourished and guided and warmed.  Not the moon.  Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness.  Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered.  How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?  

He could see the weight of it so clearly now.  He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last.  Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash.  With Martin’s help of course.  Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet.  But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester.  The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea.  Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever.  He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always.  It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’  Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot.  Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another.  Together.  That was the deal, right?  You don’t get to back out now.  No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him.  Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness.  Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story.  Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets.  Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding.  When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box.  His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something.  Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said?  Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night.  Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars.  It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey.  It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility.  It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone.  You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark.  Like it’s bleeding.  Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from.  Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it?  This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply.  He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing.  I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card.  A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um.  Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually?  I don’t know.  Sorry I-  This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking.  Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any.  Not in this universe or any other.  Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking.  If… I bought one.  And wore it.  Sort of like.  Um.  You know.  Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life.  And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him.  He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper.  They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them.  Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter.  It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it.  It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other.  Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things.  Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding.  Just so everyone could have something they liked.  And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’  

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white?  Or one of each?  I don’t know… does it really matter?  And were these engagement rings or wedding rings? ��I don’t know.  Neither?  both?  And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now?  Fiancé?  Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions.  There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much.  The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again.  So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.  

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense.  He could breathe again.  There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen.  He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long.  Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t.  There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin.  It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again.  He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon.  STOP.  It’s over.”

And he’d stopped.  He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken.  It wasn’t over.  Not for him.  He finally understood.  It was still there.  The Eye.  It always had been.  Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched.  Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see.  And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me.  I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear.  That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but...  Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit.  It’s just a scar now.  That’s all.  Just like the rest of them.  Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive.  And you are not The Archivist anymore.  You’re just mine.  My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find.  His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was.  And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it.  So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know?  The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not.  What was the word for it again?  A placeholder?  Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo?  Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah!  That’s it!  We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things!  That’s all.  Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something!  We’ll figure it out together.  Alright, love?  I promise you.  It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him.  They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved.  The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap.  Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit.  Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least.  They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty.  He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library.  But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings.  He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise.  He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes!  It’s perfect, right?  I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing?  I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant.  Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really.  It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars!  This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more!  Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds?  Wormholes or whatever?  Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone?  Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before?  Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them!  This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope.  Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow.  Tomorrow had been a lie.  As had been the next night.  In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night.  He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe.  It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness?  Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy?  Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross.  Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon.  I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire.  What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed.  He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire.  Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light.  A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens.  It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back.  There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now.  Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure.  He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing.  Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep.  To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon?  Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see?  How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide.  They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above.  Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed.  Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.  

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter.  All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity.  The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so.  Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin!  Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin!  Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this!  Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that.  Or so he’d thought.  It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all.  All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens.  He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love.  Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously.  “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original.  It was the point of the story, after all.  Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction.  Patently Greek.  But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head.  If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become?  Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own.  He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after.  A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars?  What happened to heroes left behind?  Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder.  He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer.  He’d always known.  He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time.  That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else.  Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place.  He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night.  The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation.  Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest.  He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something?  Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars.  And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look.  I love you.  So much.  You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times.  While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot?  How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What?  No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin?  I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes.  Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea.  He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much.  Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh!  Oh, um, well-!  Ahah, that is to say- Uh.  There is a reason for all this.  It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have.  B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea?  And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually...  It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars.  Let’s get that clear.  But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well.  There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it?  Did you find something?  You saw something?  There’s been a sign of The Fears?  Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What?  No!  No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it?  Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you?  Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin!  If you would just listen to me!  I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice.  Something nice for you.  And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are!  I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst!  No please!  Don’t let me spoil it.  Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey.  Hey, Jon.  Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry.  I love you.  You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is.  Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were.  So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.  A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us.  And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that.  But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that.  It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork.  And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess?  We both know what they mean to us.  It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point!  You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin.  I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything.  I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me.  I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that.  Maybe not.  But you deserve one.  And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case.  You deserve it.  All of it.  Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations.  You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me.  You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings.  All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that.  And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way.  But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right?  No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter.  Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything.  That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many.  You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin.  I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke.  The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please.  Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things.  I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar.  I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist.  And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that.  For all of it.  For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you.  But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done.  B-But now I finally realize.  You’re right, Martin.  You were always right.  It doesn’t matter.  Those things are all just… things.  I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive.  It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again.  We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive.  We fought to live, and live together.  So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life.  That I want forever with you.  S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking.  Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it.  I mean obviously no one can own a star.  Just the rights to name it?  It’s a thing you can do online.  I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest.  I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars.  I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up.  Right then and there.  It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs.  He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too!  See?  So, it’s official, at least?  The Jon-Martin star.  Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal?  Our real names?  I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us.  Not really.  So…  I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before.  Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh!  Um, also I-I got us a binary star.  I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two?  But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter.  They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe.  Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night.  Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation.  Heh, you know?  But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all.  Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think.  Our story.  A-And who knows?  Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us.  They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do.  We do, and I want to end it right here, right now.  With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek.  Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin.  P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight.  Martin… Martin, don’t you see?  These are my wedding vows to you.  This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’  All at once.  This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time.  M-Maybe I wasn’t before.  Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after.  With you, Martin.  If you’ll have me.  If I haven’t-“

He would never finish.  In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips.  He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms.  Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat.  Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry.  I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh.  Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you.  I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin.  I want to be yours for the rest of my life.  I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know.  I’ve always known.  Oh god, you do know that right?  I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say.  I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are.  Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me.  Never because you didn’t love me.  Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything.  After we fought so hard to escape fear itself.  That I almost let it truly win in the end.  That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls.  His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead.  An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight.  You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box.  Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did!  Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark.  Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment.  I would have done much the same.  I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me.  Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this.  And it would have just been simple.  To the point.  Just… Will you marry me?  So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight.  It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself.  Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I?  It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom.  I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much.  But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one.  But I did want to surprise you.  I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later?  If you want to, of course.  I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that?  A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart.  It was comforting, okay?  I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it.  I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it.  Never needed to.  I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight.  Jon wept.  He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words.  I-It was… so beautiful.  You’re so beautiful.  Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright.  I’m the words guy.  You’re the emulsifiers guy.  Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of!  Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit.  Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should.  I don’t see why not.  Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do.  And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his.  They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward.  They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it?  This is us, we’re forever, no matter what.  We did it.  And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again?  You put us in the actual stars.  I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord.  Of course you are.  But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me.  Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world.  I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him.  The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time.  Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon.  And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-?  Which part?  The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right.  Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding?  Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time.  That’s all.  Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho!  Two space related idioms in one go?  What a rare treat!  Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens.  They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold.  They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close.  They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-!  Y-Yes!  Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit.  Oh!  And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne.  They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments.  They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it.  They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all.  And that one was their dot.  The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song.  They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them.  They’re like… like old friends.  Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t.  And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be?  Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know?  They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden.  Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe.  If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner.  It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede.  You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

[earendilslight]

Soooo, I've been simping Thresh since 2014 and now I finally can be open about my love for him because of the cinematic, and since I'm about to apply for the C1 Cambridge certification and I'm in desperate need to practice my writing, it's a perfect time to write fanfics with Thresh 💖

It's just a very little text, maybe, if it gets enough love I'll turn it into an actual fanfiction. But in the mean time, enjoy!

Also, if you happen to notice any mistake let me know!

------—------------------------------------------

He came out of the shadows, where the dim light could reveal his features. It was a tall man, with long dark hair, dressed all in black, from the elegantly fixed necktie to the long-leathered trench coat that covered him down to the knees, a common attire used by the upper classes in Noxus. His face was slim, almost as the shape of the tip of a spear, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looked incredibly flexible as he smiled pettily at me. But it was not his smile that shocked me, no, it was his eyes. Eyes that shone like green, supernatural flames, like something evil lingered behind his mortal appearance.

The gaze of the monster in my nightmares. It was the same eyes that had terrified me for as long as I could remember, and now they were there, in the form of a devilman who smiled at me with cruel intentions. I suppressed a gasp, with trembling fingers, grasping at my robe while taking a step back.

I was petrified. How was I supposed to know this was the creature I pretended to make a deal with? I wonder If I would've been so bold to come here if I had known.

"Having second thoughts, miss?" he asked. His voice was deep, dark. The whisper of a phantom "You are indeed right to be frightened. Your soul would be in constant agony, roaming forever inside the lantern. Your friend made a choice, a very foolish one, I must say, and now he must pay the price of his own naive decisions. There is no point in wasting your life as a prisoner nor I'd like to carry a soul like yours."

"A soul like mine?" I said, trying to sound confident, but I could barely utter any words without stuttering.

"Do you wish to spend eternity in the lantern?" he asked, ignoring my question.

"No!" I replied almost immediately, without hesitation. The man looked pleased, even though there was barely a change in his expression.

"Then leave this place at once." He turned around,walking back to the inside of the house.

I realized how much of a mistake I'd made almost too late. I had been so scared that I was about to bail my plan and abandon Charles to his fate. I would never see him again, it didn't matter what choice I made. The only difference would be that, if I could convince that man to take me instead of him, Charles could be free and we could actually find a way to release myself and every other soul trapped in there. He, from outside, while I researched closely to the monster. And even so, I was shaking. Until that point, I hadn't considered the whole implications of being at the services of this devil, and the possibility of dying or, in the worst case scenario, spending the entire eternity in agony, was terrifying. But, hadn't Charles made sacrifices for me too? He was the only family I had left. The thought of my little brother suffering forever was unbearable, wasn't I supposed to be the one to protect him?

I couldn't abandon him like this...

"Wait!" I cried, so hard that it echoed across the entire yard and inside the manor. The man stopped at the door, turning slowly, first his head, then his whole body, now barely a silhouette in the dim light, staring at me without moving a muscle. I had my hand extended towards him, like trying to reach for his own, and I realized he was observing my gesture.

"Maybe... I could be of use outside the lantern..." I muttered, not even sure of what I was saying. He chuckled, almost amused with my comment. It was a muffled sound, not even a laugh.

"How come?" He asked with curiosity. Now I had his attention. It might have been a ridiculous thought, but I was starting to believe it could work.

"You're new to Noxus, sire" I said, straightening my back with an almost futile intention to appear confident. "People here talk a lot. In fact, most of them are already wondering who this mysterious visitor is. Where did he come from? What does he want? Noxus it's not a place who treats kindly it’s visitors, especially those who appear out of thin air and might be dangerous"

"Oh, I assure you, miss, I do not fret a bunch of drunken peasants who might try to trespass. Believe me, they are right to consider me a treat".

"I also consider you someone with a plan" I replied rapidly, getting to keep his eyes on me, and now, he seemed kind of... surprised "You don't strike me as a man who just wanders around this city in search for souls to torture. I believe you are here for a reason..."

He turned completely around, with an annoyed expression in his sharp face. As if I were a ridiculous fly trying to explain to a deadly spider how to seam its web.

"Your reasons are unknown to me" I continued "but I do know that once the people of Noxus begin to suspect you, Gods forbid, those who roam in the shadows, you would be the target of much more dangerous creatures than just drunken peasants."

It was true, actually. Unfortunately, Noxus was a city where you could disappear while walking back home just for people to find your dead body around the market the next morning and no one would bat an eye for you. Not to mention the multiple cults that made human sacrifices to the forgotten deities, besides robbers, assassins, rapists, the spirits that still roamed the streets late at night. Not to mention people had seen members of the Black Rose being more active than before. If this man was careless enough, some of them would notice, sooner or later, that there wasn’t something right with him.

"And what does this have anything to do with the liberation of your dearest brother from the lantern? And with you not taking his place inside of it?"

"I can be of good use outside the lantern, like I said"

Oh, dear God, what was I doing?

"If you let him go, I will be at your service, sire. You can keep me alive, not... dead and I can do anything that implies going outside the manor. People would suspect much less if they see actual movement in the mansion. It's not weird for a lord to have people at his services, even if it's just one harmless housekeeper..."

He seemed… intrigued by my proposal. I could tell he was analyzing every word that came out of my mouth, trying to find a deeper meaning or maybe ulterior motives behind my desires. Keen eyes watching my every move and reaction, almost as piercing through the flesh, into the darkest parts of my soul.

"Imagine I agree to your proposition” he speculated “What makes you think I would just let you go outside as you please?" he started walking towards me. There was this dreadful air around him that made my skin crawl. Like my heart was sinking down my throat and my blood froze little by little in my veins, with every step he took down in my direction.

The glowing, flame-like eyes coming closer, slowly, like the inevitable march of time and death, until the man stood there, five meters away from me, and I could smell the scent of his clothing, carried by the wind. Incense and the sea. Not the dry wood and dust of the hills of Noxus, but a fragrance I almost had forgotten, the one I smelled when I was a child, in a ship...

"I'm pretty sure you have ways to keep me bound to this place" I said, without escaping his glaring and hiding under my robe my shaking hands, while he studied me like a specimen he was about to dissect. "I do not doubt you could trap my brother again, and me, if I betray you. Or to even kill me, if it comes that way"

Maybe he was amused by my daring, maybe he was surprised at how much of a imbecile I was. Either way, he didn't utter a sound. The wind started to blow, much more cold than before, a voice that sang between the trees and the grass, moving the branches of the cypresses and the oaks as if they were to start dancing with the breeze, dragging with it heavy, grey-colored clouds announcing the impending storm.

“Do you wish so much to become a prisoner?” the man asked once more. The surrounding darkness of the clouds made his eyes brighter, like wildfire in the middle of the sea, blurred by the mist of the bay. “To never set a food without being watched? To know the true depths of the despair that brings with it the lack of freedom?”

I smiled, softly. Even when his face showed no change, I could tell he was, at least, studious to my reactions. I believe he was expecting me to be frightened by this, or to a certain degree intensely disturbed. For better or worse, life hadn’t treated me kindly. Since I was ten years old I had been at the service of people who considered me little more than trash and a burden, the next master worse than the last. Ironical, isn’t it? Seemed life had prepared me to serve a monster.

“Sire, I have served my whole life as a prisoner. From one Master to another, I’ve been tied to Bilgewaters my entire life” I admitted, looking directly into his cold gaze and when thunder started to strike, his eyes weren’t dulled by their light. “I do not fret to serve one more time, even if it’s forever…”

There was something that changed in his air. I cannot point out what it was, but his semblance was different, as if the winds of the storm had finally made him feel cold, even though I doubt something like him would be able to feel coldness. His previous smile had disappeared, and his mouth was now a grimace, a straight line, which made the jailer look much more severe than he already was.

“What is your name, miss?” the man asked, with a muttered, calm voice, with both hands behind his back.

“Senara Raion, sire” I responded, trembling not only because that man made me feel paralyzed, but because a very thin but chilling rain had started to fall above us.

He stared at me, thoughtful, almost as if he were expecting a reaction on my behalf.

“Miss Senara, tell me…” Suddenly, he extended his hand towards me, with no alteration to his face. “Do we have a deal?”

I looked at his face, the diabolic eyes, his gloved hand. There was no turning back…

“We do, sire.”

Had I known the future consequences of my choice… I would’ve never set foot on that hill...

-------—-----------------------------------------

Hope you liked it!

[onechicagorpf]

Rough Case

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader

Requested? Yes - Hi! Love your blog I was wondering if I can get a Jay halstead smut. Maybe where Jay can’t keep his hands off the reader after a tough case and just wants to show her how much he loves her. The reader has a history of domestic violence. This is only if you are taking request, so thank you in advance!

Warnings: Smut

A/N: Requests are closed for Jay imagines now, but feel free to send in OA x Reader requests! :) 

Up next? 4 Jay x Reader requests & 1 OA x Reader request

PS: Send me asks/messages/leave a note if you liked this and want to see more! 

You're sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through recipes for dinner when you hear the front door open.

"Hey babe," You say, voice a little raised so it can carry to the threshold of your apartment, where you can hear your boyfriend hanging his coat and removing his shoes. Your eyes remain fixed on your laptop screen as Jay pads across your living area and comes up to you. Before you know it, Jay's hugging you from behind, his arms wrapping around your waist loosely as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You bring your hand up to massage his scalp, leaning your head against his. Jay doesn't say anything, just sighs deeply and that makes you frown. "Everything okay, babe?" Jay doesn't say anything for a while and it worries you. "Jay?" You ask again. "Rough case." He finally says, and if it weren't for his words you would've guessed it anyway - there was a sense of deep exhaustion in his voice. You feel awful for him. "I'm so sorry, Jay. Anything I can do for you?" You respond immediately; the only thing on your mind right now is making him feel better. Jay shakes his head. "You're so good for me, Y/N." He whispers, his arms wrapping around you tighter. You feel his fingers pick at the long shirt you're wearing. You grab one of his hands and bring it up to your lips, kissing it. "You're good for me too, Jay." There's silence following that, as Jay holds your hand tight, running his thumb over your palm. His finger rubs against a small line of raised skin that goes across your palm. "I can't believe someone ever hurt you." Jay says after a while, his voice tight. You just shake your head, as you remember the scene - your ex-boyfriend, drunk and convinced you were cheating on him, throwing a glass vase at you. You'd brought your hands up to cover your face, and thankfully there hadn't been any major injuries, but you'd ended up with a bunch of cuts on your arms, including your palms. "It's alright, it was a long time ago, and it's over now." You tell him just as much as you're telling yourself. Jay hums, his arms shifting so that his hands now rested right between your legs. You paid no mind to it, not thinking anything dirty, at least until one of his hands gently pulled up your shirt and the other hand ducked beneath it. Jay slowly rubbed the pad of his thumb over the crotch of your panties. 

You chuckled softly, turning your head ever so slightly to the right so you could press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Jay turns his face, his stubble gently running over your lips, before he kisses you. It's a soft kiss, slow and deliberate, but you can feel the heat simmering underneath your boyfriend's actions. Right on cue, you feel a finger slipping under the waistband of your panties. Your breathing starts to get heavy and you wrap your arms around Jay's neck, pulling him closer, your ass almost lifting off the tall bar stool you're sitting on. Jay crowds your space, causing you to settle back down and with his free hand he spreads your thighs apart.

A finger gently slips into you, aided by your wetness, and you gasp, breaking off the kiss. You nuzzle Jay's neck, arms wrapping around him even tighter now. Jay - never one to draw things out unnecessarily - slips another finger in, and slowly starts fucking you out.    "Fuck, yeah, just - just like that, oh!" You moan into his warm neck as he picks up the pace. Your body's getting warmer and warmer, and your toes begin to curl. "Jay, please," You say, your head starting to feel heavy. Wordlessly, Jay starts pressing kisses to your exposed neck, just as his other hand slips under your panties as well. "Ohhh my god!" You shout as Jay's other hand begins working your clit. You whimper and squeal as the feelings of Jay stroking your clit rhythmically while also fingering you starts to overwhelm you. You can feel a thin layer of sweat on your flushed skin, and you lean more and more into Jay, pressing your body against his helplessly, as he just absolutely ruins you. "C'mon baby, I know you can do it, come all over my hands," Jay whispers, his voice deep and low, and you nod heatedly, wanting nothing more than to prove him right. You feel it building, in the depth of your core, a fast-rising warmth that's got your legs shaking and your eyes screwed shut and your mouth slack. You babble to Jay that you're almost there, almost there, and you can barely even hear yourself. And then, it hits you. "Ohhhh - oh - ah! Ahhhhh!" You cry out, throwing your head back as you ride the waves of pleasure flooding every part of you. You're seeing stars as your mind just reduces completely into a haze and you sag helplessly against Jay's solid body.

He gently pulls his fingers out, the action eliciting a shudder from you and a gasp as you suddenly feel empty. "Don't worry baby, I'll fill you right up after dinner..." Jay murmurs into your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before grabbing tissues for the both of you. You stay leaning against him as your mind tries to clear through the fog. When you eventually open your eyes you look up at a pair of beautifully clear sea-green eyes staring right back at you like you’re the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. "I can't put into words how good it feels, watching you come like that." Jay says, and your lips curve into a smile. "You like watching me happy," You reply, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. "Of course I do, it's my favorite sight in the world." Jay winks, and you chuckle, swatting at his arm. You rest your head against his chest and hear the steady thumping of his heart, and it makes you feel safe and loved in a way you’d never felt before. 

"Y/N...” Jay starts, and you hum in response. “I - I can't believe someone hurt you in your past, but I want you to know I would never do that." Jay speaks so earnestly your eyes are tearing up. You think of all the horrible things your ex did to you, how he hurt you, and how on the darkest of days you thought to yourself that you were never going to be happy the way you are right now. Jay holds your face in his hand, tilting it up towards him so you can see the serious look in his eyes. 

"For the rest of my life, I'm going to make you happy. That's all I want to do, that's all I'm going to do."  Breathing deeply, you try to tell your heart to settle, but it seems to be rattling vehemently against your rib cage. "Jay?" You ask, because you feel like the two of you are on the cusp of something. Jay just looks down at you, his eyes slightly wet as well. "I didn't really plan this - I mean I knew it was happening at some point, but I didn't really - I don't even have a ring, but uh, I just. I love you so much, so - " He clears his throat, and you sit up straight, a tear rolling down your cheek, as you hold your breath. "Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me?" "Yes, of course - yes!" You answer, jumping at Jay with so much force that he gets knocked back a little, but he doesn't care and neither do you - he's carrying you with your legs wrapped around his body, and your hands are holding his face as the two of you touch foreheads, tears streaming down your faces. "I love you, Y/N." Jay says after a while, smiling softly. "I love you too, Jay." You whisper back, your heart feeling so full of love.

[quagmiremarch]

The Lies We Tell to Find Our Truth

New fic for Yuri on Ice Regency Week ( @yoiregencyweek). Cross-posted to AO3. Yuuri Katsuki considered himself a respectable man. Simple, perhaps, from a common family and of no great note in either affect or appearance, but polite and mindful of courtesy. Certainly not the sort of fellow to find himself improper or inclined to rule-breaking. And yet, here he found himself, shoulder-length hair curled and artfully draped as he allowed Mr. Phichit Chulanont, his most trusted acquaintance, to fit him into, of all things, a ball gown, for the purposes of committing a most imprudent and scandalous fraud. All for the sake of saving his family’s good name from his sister’s most willful disregard. It had been her that found the Lord Bin’s carriage disabled along the sea road, and she that chose to bring the unconscious lord and his retainer to the onsen to be tended.  And while Yuuri certainly applauded her kindness, and would most likely have done the same, it was not his ‘uncanny loveliness and kind heart’ that had prompted the elderly lord to issue to the Katsuki family an invitation for Mari and an escort to attend the spring ball where she might ‘find a suitor to raise her to the station that was her due.’ So, why then had it fallen upon Yuuri to prevent shame from befalling his family? Because his sister, while kind, lacked in courtesy and graciousness in the face of societal obligations. Which was the polite way to say that she had taken a single glance at the invitation when it arrived and declared, quite loudly, “I will assuredly not waste a fine evening playing made-up strumpet for a room full of arrogant boot-lickers when there is real work to be done.” And then she had tossed the invitation into the embers of the hearth. Yuuri caught a terrible burn in rescuing it, and a mighty headache trying to explain why Mari had no choice but to accept the invitation. The lord had bequeathed the onsen with accolades, and the Katsukis with an honorary title of no real import or value, but which bore a certain weight of obligation. Mari had responded that should Yuuri care so much for appearances and false niceties then he was most welcome to attend the ball in her place. Though perhaps her wording had been a tad more colorful. Regardless, this is how it came to be that Yuuri found himself bedecked and be-gowned in a likely disastrous attempt to pass himself off as his sister for one night. He’d procured the proper clothing, and Mr. Chulanont had a suspiciously skilled had at the application of hairpins and beauty powders to soften his features to something passingly feminine. Though he suspected ‘uncannily lovely’ beyond his reach.

He had even taken time to learn the roles in the dances he might be expected to know despite the mirth of his mentor in this endeavor. Now, he simply had to get to the proper location, avoid causing any offense, and if lucky speaking at all, and return home without anyone learning of this perfidy.

“Why, Miss Katsuki,” Phichit drawled with a sly grin, “you certainly are a vision.” Then the man frowned and stuck a hand down the front of Yuuri’s grown, adjusting the fabric in place to mimic feminine assets he most assuredly lacked. “There, much better. Shall we?”

With a sigh, Yuuri took Phichit’s arm and let himself be led into the carriage. Already it looked to be a dreadfully long evening ahead.

##

To Yuuri’s great relief, the elder Lord Bin was not in attendance at the ball, a minor ailment keeping him away. Not perhaps that it would much have mattered in the crowded ballroom. Everywhere people moved about like eddies and whorls of bright color, men in dapper suits and tails fluttering from one group of young ladies to another much as bees would traverse a field. Yuuri, in the much simpler attire affordable to him, looked much like a robin among a sky full of blue jays.

He found he did not mind. Being overlooked made his plan of going unnoticed much simpler. Lamentably, he had not accounted for his chaperone disappearing onto the dance floor to leave Yuuri to on his own. Still, he tucked himself away in a corner, a single glass of iced punch at hand, and counted the minutes until he might politely excuse himself.

He’d barely reached seven before the first gentleman approached. Tall and broad of shoulder, the younger Lord Bin looked much as his father must have in his prime, all square lines with the darkest of hair and eyes. Not perhaps to Yuuri’s taste—though he kept his inclinations towards those of his own gender close to his chest – but appealing in a general manner.

“Miss Katsuki,” Lord Bin addressed with what might have been either a deep tilt of his head or the shallowest of bows, “it is a pleasure to find you in attendance. I had thought my father’s claims to your beauty exaggerated, but I see now he had, in fact, rather understated your virtues.”

“Oh.” Yuuri swallowed as he felt the heat creep up his ears. While he’d practiced the dancing and the ways of walking in such binding garments, he’d lacked access to information on the ways of upper class polite small talk, had hoped rather fervently to avoid the need to make any. Now, he found himself at a loss as to the proper response to what seemed a rather forward comment. “Ah. You flatter me to greatly, Lord Bin.” He kept his eyes down and hoped any lack of manners would be forgiven as ignorance due to his lower station and not a complete misunderstanding of the expectations of a woman in such a situation.

“I do no such thing.” He offered his arm. “Might I have this dance?”

Yuuri simply nodded, allowing himself to be escorted onto the floor. He found Lord Bin to be a passable dancer, and the jaunty pace of the Scotch reel left no time or room for words between them. He might, perhaps have feared the conversation to come, had another gentleman not swept him up immediately into the next set.

And so, for some time Yuuri found himself surprisingly more entertained then he had hoped, caught up in the mood and the music, always, it seemed, a new face looking to usher him across the floor, and precious little discussion expected of him beyond the niceties of introductions and polite platitudes.

The break for dinner proved more of a challenge. Yuuri understood that ranking and status determined the proper table at which he should place himself, but had a fair lack of context as to the ranking of most the other guests to use his limited information. Phichit, his absence as chaperone the topic of several comments Yuuri received, remained missing from the gathering and so could not be consulted.

“Do you need assistance, Miss Katsuki?”

Yuuri turned at the words and found himself gazing upon the loveliest man perhaps ever created. Taller than Yuuri, though not by a tremendous amount, his eyes shone blue as the summer seas, and he had hair of so pale a blonde as to shine silver in the lights of the ballroom. A friendly smile danced across the man’s fair features, adding an air of approachability to his noble bearing.

“Miss Katsuki?”

Yuuri started, pulled from his shock and suddenly mortified by his terrible rudeness. “Ah! My apologies. I fear I found myself...lost in thought for a moment.” An atrocious excuse for his blatant staring, but the best Yuuri could manage.

“No need to apologize at all. Might I escort you to a seat?” The man offered an arm.

Yuuri offered a shy smile, skin flushing as he felt the man’s warmth even through the thin silk gloves he’d worn to the ball. “Thank you...” he trailed off, at a loss for how to proceed. He knew not the man’s name, nor rank. He feared addressing him improperly as ‘Mister’ when a ‘Lord’ might be required would cause great offense. He worried even more that this might be some man of great import, a Baron or Earl (or Prince for he certainly looked the part) and that Yuuri’s ignorance of his identity might be just as great an insult.

“Victor, please. Might I be so bold as to have your first name?”

Bold indeed, but caught in that azure gaze Yuuri forgot himself entirely. “Yu-” he coughed, and recovered himself quickly, horrified he had so simply nearly thrown away the whole game. “You may call me Mari.” The words came out low, embarrassed. Even Yuuri knew such familiarity on so brief an acquaintance counted as unseemly and forward to the extreme. And yet, something in Victor’s soft smile and the hand resting firmly upon Yuuri’s own invited such misbehavior.

“Mari,” Victor beamed, smile heart-shaped and bright, “a suitably lovely name for such a beauty as you.”

Yuuri wondered if the aristocratic men were always so flirtatious and forward or if they felt emboldened by Yuuri—Mari’s – lower station. A thing perhaps to ponder, though not a terribly important one. After this one eve he was unlikely to ever see again any of these gentlemen.

Gazing up at the strong line of Victor’s jaw, Yuuri regretted that fact for the first time since he’d conceived of this ridiculous plan. Not that there were any point to longing for further acquaintance. Yuuri had arrived in the guise of a woman; any further meetings would lead only to anger and accusations should his deception be discovered. There simply existed no future for knowing this beautiful Victor. Best not to linger on such thoughts. Once dinner completed, Yuuri might reasonably return home and to his simple, but happy life.

Except that as dinner was served, Victor started speaking. He talked with love and mirth of his darling poodle, of the smell of winter on the sea as his favorite scent, of his love of dance.

Poor Yuuri felt defenseless in the face of these revelations and so shared his own: stories of his own dog, anecdotes about the onsen patrons, a long and passionate tribute to ballet as an art and his own less inspiring studies thereof. To the latter he left out the ridicule his devotion to the art inspired in his local peers. Such a study would seem perfectly appropriate for someone like Mari. Another thing Yuuri envied his sister.

Dinner bled into dancing in Victor’s arms, a waltz followed by a shared moment on the balcony as they each drank in silence side-by-side. In the quiet isolation of that space, bathed in moonlight, Victor looked to the sky as he finally spoke quietly, “You are wonderful company, Mari. Might I call upon you sometime?”

And Yuuri froze, eyes wide. “I--” A drunken laugh interrupted as the balcony doors opened and a much inebriated Phichit stumbled upon them. “Yuuri! Here you are! I--” He stopped, gulped as he took in the other person present.

“Duke Nikiforov. You’re...here. With….Mari. Huh.” Phichit blinked owlishly and then grabbed Yuuri’s wrist. “Well, it is certainly late. We should go. Somewhere. Not here. Very well. Good-bye!”

With that the smaller boy tugged Yuuri back into the crowded ballroom and out the door to their waiting carriage.  One part of Yuuri realized this the best course of action. The rest longed to run back to Victor, to tell him the truth and hope against hope the connection they’d formed remained. A pointless dream, he knew.

But, as he looked back once, catching sight of Victor’s bright hair and strong form chasing after, his heart beat ever faster, and he hoped nonetheless, even after the curtains of the windows blocked his view and the racing horses carried him away from the fantasy and home to the onsen where only lonely reality waited.

[mrsalwayswrite]

Anchor in the Waves- Chapter 2

I am so sorry its taken so long to get this chapter out...its been one of those weeks. Anyway, here it is! Yay!

Quick reminders: Osbert = Uhtred. Islond=Iceland. Irland=Ireland // all translations are via google and in italics. 

This chapter is emotional. Most of the warnings pertain to this chapter. Again, nothing is graphic but implied. Still heavy stuff though. I promise after this it gets better. 

Tag List: @happyveday​ @evelynshelby​

"What's it like? Islond?" Halig asked, huddled against Osbert. 

 "If hell froze over...that is Islond." Finan replied from Osbert's other side, arms tucked inside of his tunic.  

 Hakka had announced earlier that the trading season was done. Tomorrow they would start the voyage back to Islond. The slaves were to enjoy a few hours rest before back on the oars. They had been tossed stale loaves of bread to share, the thick taste of salt coating the bread from the sea spray. 

 Finan, Osbert and Halig huddled together, not quite shivering but perpetually cold. The manacle around their ankles seemed to absorb the cold and inject it straight into their bodies. 

 "We'll be on land though." 

 Finan did not reply to Halig's comment. Yes, they would be on land, the oars no longer feeling like an unwanted extension of their person; but they would still be barely fed and forced to endure the brutal cold of winter without respite. 

 Yet with the thought of their return to Islond she came to mind. 

 Aine. 

 Was she alive? Would she remember him? Would she care for him once again?

 There were many times he found his mind wandering to her over the past several months, worried for her. In his darkest hours, he would conjure up her face, reveling in the brief flash of warmth it brought with it. Her brown hair in a braid over her shoulder, several strands loose around her face. Her slightly pointed chin and the dimple in it. Eyes the color of bronze. The small birthmark on her cheekbone. Those gentle, calloused hands that held his like a lifeline, both providing and seeking comfort. 

 "A stòr." He whispered into the wind. Was it a call to let her know he was coming? A hope that she had not given up on him? A reminder of what had passed between them? He did not know. In his soul, it just felt right. (My treasure.)

 *****

 She almost dropped the blankets in her arms when she saw him. 

 All the ship slaves looked awful, like they had been dragged across the sea floor then pulled ashore and forced to remember how to walk. They were almost indistinguishable with their long, matted hair and beards, bowed backs, threadbare clothes and general air of defeat. 

 She stood to the side of the main hall, having run from gathering the blankets off the drying line to be able to watch their approach. 

 To see if he returned. 

 "Aine!" Master Sverri called, walking towards her. His thumbs were tucked into the band around his waist, his strut like a conquering hero returning home. Yet he was no hero. "Come to greet us?"

 "Welcome home, Master." She answered demurely, dropping her gaze to his boots. It startled her that he called her by name. He had always called her ‘girl’ or ‘slave’ before. She tried not to think too hard about the implications of him remembering her name and using it.  

 He tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. His sharp eyes bore into her, seeking something in her face, before releasing her with a grunt as he walked past. She was unsure what that look meant...but it made her uncomfortable.  

 As she looked once again at the slaves, one was staring at her. Soft, brown eyes met hers. She would know those eyes anywhere. 

 Finan. 

 Unconsciously, her eyes widened and tears threatened to fall. The shock of seeing him again rooted her to where she stood lest she collapse. He was alive...but appeared even more haggard and frail compared to last she saw him. He cradled one of his hands against his chest, staring at her until he was shoved by one of the Danes into the barn. She remained frozen, watching as all the ship slaves were marched to the barns and separated. 

 The one thought repeated in her mind endlessly- he was alive. 

 For how much longer though?

 The returned Danes would celebrate voraciously tonight, happy to be home. Ale would flow freely and most would be passed out before the moon was at its zenith. She should be able to sneak away without notice. She had too. 

 Quickly, she turned and headed back inside the main hall, back to her duties before the Master's wife could yell at her for being lazy. 

 The night could not come soon enough. 

 *****

 "Finan?"

 He jerked at his name, the sound just barely slipping through the slats of the barn. It had taken some manipulation to make sure that he ended up back in the same pen he had occupied prior. A small smile crossed his lips when he noticed the hole he had made was still there. "Aine?"

 Sticking his hand through the opening, warmth immediately surrounded his hand as she clutched it with both of hers. 

 “Conaíonn tú.” She murmured. (You live.)

 “Mar a dhéanann tú.” (As do you.) 

 He pressed his forehead to the slats and felt her reciprocate the action. That simple touch, the simple connection brought tears to his eyes. It would never eclipse the beatings, starvation and despair but it helped lessen it. He had missed her. 

 Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Osbert watching him curiously, everyone else asleep by this point. He trusted Osbert not to say anything to their captors. 

 They stayed that way for several minutes. Everything Finan could think of to say to her, to acknowledge or ask...once it hit his tongue died. So, he kept his lips closed and just breathed in her gentle presence, a balm to his dispirited soul.  

 He remembered that last time he had thought she was beautiful. When he saw her after getting off the ship this time, it felt like something had changed. When he looked up and saw her standing by the main hall, a pile of blankets in her arms, he realized he had been wrong. She was radiant.  

 “Ní féidir liom fanacht.” (I cannot stay.)

 “Tuigim. Táim… tá áthas orm go bhfuil tú ceart go leor.” (I understand. I am… I am glad you are alright.)

 “Seo.” She pushed something into his hand then released it. (Here.)

 “Go raibh maith agat.” (Thank you.)

 He heard her footsteps as she walked away quickly. Pulling his hand back, he noticed it was half a loaf of bread. Far more than she had ever given him before. Without a word, he tore it into three parts and tossed two of them to Osbert. The man caught them, having been watching him, and quietly nudged Halig to wake him. 

 As they ate silently, Finan's thoughts were disturbed by Osbert's whisper. 

 "Who is she?"

 Finan thought about his answer, munching on the fresh bread. Something he had not tasted in almost two years. "Aine." He finally replied. "When I was here last...she saved me."

 *****

 Over the next couple of weeks, Aine tried to visit Finan every few days. She wished she could go every night, not just to see him with her own eyes and feel his hand in hers; at least then she knew he was getting food when she visited. After the third visit, he had mentioned about two others he had come to know. If it was his intention to mention others to receive more food, she did not mind. She tried to bring a little extra with her, sometimes forgoing her own lunch and dinner to have extra to bring. She was too scared to steal more from the kitchens and get caught. 

 It was also during this time that Master Sverri's attentions to her became more obvious. 

 *****

 "The deep cold will start tonight." Gunnhild, the Master's wife, said flatly. She sat mending by the fire in the main hall, an interesting sight since her hands were the size of ham hocks. Everyone else had returned to their homes by this point, leaving only the Master, his wife and the house slaves. 

 "Yes." Master Sverri listlessly said, staring at the flames with a mug of ale in hand. 

 She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Unless you want your slaves to freeze to death, they will need blankets. By the gods, you do this every year!"

 "They are slaves."

 "THEY ARE EXPENSIVE!" She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This was not a good year for us. Not enough trade. We need to keep them alive."

 He swirled the ale in his mug for a long moment before nodding solely. "You are right."

 "Aine," Gunnhild called loudly, "you and Alva take blankets to the ship slaves."

 "Yes, Mistress." Aine stood up from further down the main hall, where she had been scrubbing the dried, sticky ale off the tables. It had been another rambunctious night of drinking for the Danes. After everyone left, the Mistress suddenly decided the sticky residue needed to be removed. "Would ya prefer me to finish my task first?"

 "No, it'll be here when you return. Go."

 Leaving everything behind, she headed to the kitchen to inform Alva, the middle-aged cook, their task. They gathered the spare blankets, kept separate for the ship slaves and headed out to the barns. Aine announced she would take the barn with the pigs. If Alva had any suspicions, it was not noticeable. On the contrary, she thanked Aine since she needed to return to the kitchen quickly to prepare the porridge for the morning and the barn with the horses was closer to the main hall.  

 Without a word, Aine tossed half of the blankets in the first pen. The sounds of the men scurrying and arguing over the blankets followed her as she moved on. It was the second pen that she cared about more. 

 There were five slaves in the second pen, including Finan. As she approached, the men watched her warily. It was when she tossed the couple blankets in, did they finally move. It was the one with piercing blue eyes that took charge and passed the blankets out, giving her a brief nod after as he huddled under one with a smaller man on one side and Finan on the other. 

 "Thank ya." 

 She directed a small smile at Finan, her eyes meeting his own. This was the first time they were face to face without slats separating them. She opened her mouth to say something but the scraping sound of the barn door opening stopped her. With a backward glance, she froze. 

 Master Sverri closed the barn door behind him. In the darkness it was hard to decipher his features, but something about the way he was standing there peering at her made her skin crawl. 

 Subconsciously, she stepped back. 

 If he noticed her movement, he gave no indication as he slowly approached, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes never drifted away from her body, eyeing her hungrily. "Are the blankets distributed?" 

 "Yes, Master."

 "Good." He drew closer until he stood in front of her, hovering over her. Meanwhile he ignored the slaves in the pens as if they were furniture. "Was there another task that required you, Aine?"

 It was not until hearing him say her name now, that Danish growl butchering the pronunciation, that she realized how much she desired hearing Finan say her name. When he said it, his Irish accent grew. When he said it, it sounded like home. 

 "Just finishin' cleanin' the tables."

 "Mmm...I have need of you first." It was the way he said it, his hand brushing her hair out of her face, the closeness of his body. She knew what was to come. Alva warned her only a few days ago what his attention would mean. 

 "Come." He commanded, turning back towards the barn door.  

 What else could she do? Bowing her head, she started to follow. Not before she snuck a glance at Finan. Even in the darkness, she could read the horror and rage on his face. He hastily shoved the blanket off him, starting to rise. Immediately she shook her head, hoping he could see it in the gloom. They were slaves. Their thoughts and feelings were nothing. Their bodies and pain were nothing. They were nothing. 

 She thought she heard Finan quietly call out her name but it did not matter. She kept moving. 

 After Master Sverri finished with her that night, she sat outside and gazed at the stars above, tears slipping down her cheeks undisturbed. Was it worth even wishing for freedom anymore? Was this all fate had planned for her?

 *****

 "Aine…"

 “Níl, ná habair é.” She silenced him by interrupting, clutching his hand just a little tighter. He was unsure if he could hear a tremble in her voice or if it was just the cold. “I ... tá sé rud ar bith. Mhair tú i bhfad níos measa ná mise.” (No, do not say it. // I...it is nothing. You have survived far worse than me.)

 “Ní comórtas é.” (It is not a competition.)

 A small bark of laughter slipped out of her mouth, but it sounded harsh and cruel. Finan wished there was something, anything he could do to protect her. He would easily accept a beating or whipping to save her from whatever fate was giving her. Yet there was nothing he could do. He was imprisoned, too weak to fight in her stead, he doubted he had the strength to hold up a sword and swing it, let alone fight with it. 

 He wanted to ask about the other night, when Master Sverri followed her to the barn. He wanted...no, needed to know if that bastard touched her. She must have anticipated his question and shut it down before he even placed the words on his tongue to say. That night he had sat awake the whole time. Fury, vengeance, fear and despair took turns beating at his mind. He wanted nothing more than to escape the pen and throttle Master Sverri before he could lay a hand on her. Save her from whatever cruelty played out in the Dane’s mind as he stood there in the gloom of the barn, leering at her like a predator and she an innocent lamb. As Finan started to rise, flaming anger fueling his movements, Osbert grabbed his arm and forced him to stay still. The rest of the night and the next two were torturous. Rage rose up within him whenever he saw Master Sverri walking around the village, enough to make his veins almost boil with his desire to slowly kill the Dane. What was worse though, was the rage at himself for his inability to do anything. 

 Finan squeezed her hand, his breath visible from the cold. “Geallaim lá amháin saorfaidh mé thú.” (I promise one day I will free you.)

 “Finan, le do thoil ... ná tabhair gealltanais mar sin le do thoil.” (Finan, please do not... please do not make promises like that.)

 “Ná tabhair suas, a stór, ná déan! Éalóimid, agus tiocfaidh mé ar ais agus saorfaidh mé thú. Tugaim faoi deara é. An gcreideann tú mé? Abair amach é.” (Do not give up, my treasure, do not! We will escape, and I will come back and free you. I swear it. Do you believe me? Say it.)

 “Creidim thú.” (I believe you.) She barely whispered; voice tight with emotion.

 He rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand, her hand still trembling, much like his own. Her face was turned down, staring at their hands as if ashamed to meet his eyes. He wished he could comfort her further somehow, wrap his arms around her and hide her away from the world. 

 Suddenly the sound of the dogs barking made them both jump. 

 "Téigh!" He said, worried someone would find her. It was truly a miracle she had been able to seek him out like she had been without anyone the wiser. (Go!)

 Without a word, she dropped his hand and ran, having already given him the hard biscuits. 

 Once he no longer heard her footsteps or any screams to signal she had been caught, he relaxed against the side of the barn, tucking the blanket closer around his person that he shared with Osbert and Halig. 

 He turned his head to look at the man sitting next to him. His blue eyes met Finan's brown in the darkness of the barn. Keeping his voice low, he spoke, a determination coursing through his veins. "What is the plan ya mentioned earlier?"

 Osbert smiled wickedly. 

 *****

 Finan could see the slavers gaining ground on them. The dogs barked loudly at catching sight of their prey just up ahead. The sand and rocks under his feet made footing treacherous. His legs wobbled beneath him like a newborn foal’s. Osbert already fell once. He was not even sure how Halig was still running, although his strength was obviously failing. 

 But they had to keep going. Their freedom laid before them just up ahead. 

 A bastard boat. 

 He grabbed the end, pulling with what little strength he had left to get it into the water. The weight threatened to be too much for his weakened body...but he kept pulling. This was their one chance. There would not be another. They must make it.

 Then Halig collapsed on the rocky shore. Osbert tried to drag him along, crying how he would not leave him behind, but both barely moved. 

 It was then, before the Danes even seized them, Finan knew they failed. 

 The small waves slammed against the back of his legs, spraying water across his body. For a second, he wondered if it would be better for him to run into the sea and not turn back. His body was bound to be cast into its depths anyway, either by his choice or the slavers tossing his corpse overboard when his body finally gave out. 

 He looked over at Osbert, meeting his distraught gaze. A thousand words passed unspoken between them. At that moment, he knew abandoning his friend was not an option. 

 The Danes returned the three of them, bound and chained, back to the village. Seven others waited, having been captured already. They sat, all bound together in the middle of the village. All day and night they remained, exposed to the elements and the occasional beating from the slavers. During this time they went without food or water as the Danes sought out the other escaped slaves. 

 By the end of the next day, all but two slaves were found. 

 Master Sverri glared at them from the front steps of the main hall, arms crossed over his chest. "We leave in one week!" He announced, then looked to his men, standing around the slaves. "Whip them...but not that one." He pointed a stubby finger at Halig, the pain from his wounds evident on the slave’s ashen face. "He watches for now. His punishment will come later." 

 That night, Finan finally asked the question that had been brewing in his mind like a bad storm. "Who are ya really?" He demanded, his voice low so the others would not overhear, even if they appeared to be asleep. 

 More than once he overheard Halig call Osbert “lord” and how Osbert made reference to their fighting together. There was an authority that Osbert bore on his shoulders, invisible but when he spoke, it came with the sound of one used to orders listened to. 

 Osbert sighed, glancing around the pen they were back in. "No one."

 "I know that's a filthy lie."

 "It's a long story."

 "I'm no goin' anywhere." Finan shrugged then winced as the torn muscles on his back from the whipping stretched. 

 He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment before groaning and turning to face Finan completely. Even in the gloom of the barn, his blue eyes shone with passion. His voice changed from a quiet resignation to one of determination. "My name is Uhtred son of Uhtred, Lord of Bebbanburg..."

 *****

 In three days, the ship would set sail. Away from Islond. Away from her. Away into the unknown future and turbulent seas. Aine visited Finan two days before, giving what food she could to him. Normally, she tried not to visit him so soon for fear of being caught. Now though, she wanted to give him what nourishment she could before he was gone. She also brought more cloths for him to wrap around his palms, along with some extra for the others. 

 He firmly gripped her hand. She was unsure if it was his hand or hers that trembled. Tears formed but she restrained them through sheer will. For some reason, this time, this goodbye felt final. Neither spoke it but both acknowledged it. She should have walked away some time ago, yet her legs refused to move, his hand clasped between hers just as tightly. 

 “Fan láidir, Aine.” (Stay strong, Aine.)

 All she could only nod. Her soul was being chipped away little by little and now with Finan's upcoming departure, she doubted she would survive. 

 Especially if Master Sverri came back and Finan did not. 

 There were so many things she wanted to tell him but never did. Due to her own cowardness or time constraint, it mattered little now. It was still left unspoken. There was a bond between them, something she would always be grateful for. He was her strength when she felt unable to rise up again, her joy when he teased her and made her smile as something she never did otherwise, he was her sanctuary where she could hide away from the world. How could she tell him all this though? How could she convey her deep need for him to steady her as the rock he was in her life? 

 “Aine? Cad é sin?” (Aine? What is it?)

 Her fluctuating emotions must have shown on her face enough for him to see it in the moonlight. She sighed, leaning over to press a kiss to the back of his hand. Something they had never done. His sharp inhale of breath worried her for a brief moment. Then he leaned his forehead against the slats, tugging her hand gently until she reciprocated the action. 

 “Tá rud éigin le rá agam…” He breathed out. (There is something I need to say…) 

 Oh, what she would give for these slats to be gone, for them to be free, to embrace him uninhibited like she wanted to. She squeezed his hand to let him know she was listening. Slowly he exhaled, as if that would help align the words on his tongue. The thought made her smile softly. 

 "Hey! You!" 

 Aine looked over and saw a figure standing still, having just come around the side of the barn. With a torch in hand, he was unable to distinguish her in the darkness. But she could see who it was. Terror flooded her veins with a vengeance. Her worst nightmare came to pass.  

 “RITH!” (RUN!) 

 Aine obeyed Finan's order without a second thought, darting away, hoping to lose her pursuer amidst the buildings as she weaved around them. Hard footfalls from behind crept closer and closer. She put everything she had into getting away and hiding. The figure could not have seen her face. He would not have known what she was doing. She just had to find somewhere to hide and wait him out.  She just had to make it there. 

 Something slammed into her the back, making her stumble and lose her footing. Ungraciously, she fell face first.

 She gasped; the impact having chased the air from her lungs. Tears welled in her eyes. Her hands dug into the firm earth beneath her. No…. no... no... please not this. 

 "What do we have here?" A rough hand flipped her over, forcing her to stare into the face of Hakka. "What were you doing, whore?"

 Tears streamed down her face. There was nothing she could do now, nowhere to hide. This was it.  

 "Let's go ask Master Sverri, mmm?" He grabbed a fistful of her hair and started dragging her towards the main hall. 

 Minutes later she found herself on her knees before the Master, who had been roused from sleep. His tunic and leggings were rumpled from the bed. Only socks clad his feet, not even sparing the time to put his boots on with Hakka's yelling. 

 "What were you doing, Aine?" The Master asked softly, an almost begging unbelief in his tone. As if he could not fathom she would disobey him. 

 Her eyes remained on the floor, hands clasped in her lap. It was no use answering. She suddenly felt exhausted, so much so to not even try and create an excuse for her actions. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hide from everything until her body rejoined the ground. She was so tired.  

 "Look at me." He cupped her chin gently, forcing her eyes to his. 

 Unable to stop herself, she flinched. Though he never beat her, she loathed his touch. Every time his fingers grazed her skin or hair, every time he had "need" of her, every time his eyes tracked her across the room...she hated everything about him. 

 "There is a small opening, broken slat towards the back of the pig barn where the slaves stay. She was kneeling in front of there." Hakka explained, hand on the axe head strapped to his side. "It was a good size to pass something through."

 Master Sverri stared at her, hand still cupping her chin. “Were you giving the slaves something?"

 She bit her bottom lip, tasting her own blood in her mouth. 

 "ANSWER ME!!" He suddenly roared in her face, his hand on her face now gripped it painfully. 

 Then the voice of Gunnhild came from the side of the room, wrapped in a cloak and hair messy from being roused unceremoniously. "Alva informed me she has noticed Aine does not always eat her meals but saves them, stuffing the food into a pouch or wrapping and saving it."

 "Have you been feeding the slaves?" Master Sverri asked. He stared at her with wide, unbelieving eyes. When she did not answer, that surprise turned to rage. He backhanded her, sending her sprawling to the ground. More blood filled her mouth but she remained silent. He rounded on Hakka. "Take her to the pit."

 "What will you do with her?" Gunnhild stared down her nose at the slave girl that had been a gift. "I do not want her anymore."

 "I will take care of her." Her husband stated, fists clenched by his sides. 

 Hakka grabbed one of her arms and dragged her out of the room. The angle he pulled on, she feared he would dislocate or break her arm. She tugged, trying to loosen or change his grip on her. A whimper escaped her as he yanked purposefully with a dark chuckle. 

 It was when she could see where he was taking her that she began to fight back, albeit weakly. She kicked and swung at him. Anything to stop their advancement. Anything to not be put in there. 

 He laughed, easily manhandling her. "You'll beg for death soon enough." He whispered into her ear as he immobilized her against his body. "Sverri will not forgive this, nor show mercy. Maybe he will finally let us all take our turn with you."

 That thought terrified her. She whipped her head back, feeling it slam against his face with a crack. 

 "Stupid whore!" He yelled, throwing her to the ground. Before she could move to escape, he stood over her, blood dripping from his nose. A snarl on his face, he pulled his arm back and punched the side of her head. 

 Darkness surrounded her. 

 *****

 The shackle on his ankle burned. The hard bench under his arse and the high wall of the slave ship made him feel like he was looking out of his own grave. The smell of the ocean nauseated him already. 

 The Danes were securing the last of the slaves to their posts on the ship and bringing the remaining supplies aboard. 

 Fresh pain radiated across his back when he moved his shoulders. However foolhardy it was, he fought back against the Danes when they dragged the slaves towards the ship. A strong rod across his back repeatedly forced his submission. 

 Now he sat here waiting…waiting to row...waiting for his probable death. 

 Even sitting with his back facing him, Finan could see Uhtred's resolve slowly beginning to slip away after their failed escape attempt. Uhtred tried his best to hide it though, especially in front of Halig. The smaller man had been in visible pain since their escape attempt, his arrow wounds untended. The Danes had not seen fit to provide any medical attention, just threw him in the pen with the others. 

 A disturbance at the front of the ship caught Finan's attention. Walking up the gangplank was Master Sverri, his hand firmly grasping a handful of Aine's hair and forcing her to walk before him. 

 A punch to the gut, a whipping, being tossed overboard...anything would have been less expected than this. 

 Finan had not seen her for three days, not since she had last given him food then run off when someone noticed her. What worried him the most, he had not even seen her around the village doing her daily chores. During the following days, his mind conjured more and more horrific scenarios of what happened to her. He knew whatever it was, he was responsible. Without him, she would have been safe back in the main hall, in her bed, not outside the barn trying to sneak him food. It was his fault. He should have told her to stay away, to not worry about him. 

 The prospect of food and a gentle touch had been too strong, his weakened mind and body unable to resist. 

 It was his fault. 

 Now seeing her, his heart plummeted in his chest. She looked far worse than any other time he had seen her. Her dress was torn and dirty, as if she had been dragged out of a hole in the ground. Dried tear tracks stood out against the grime covering her face, the only spots semi-clean. From this distance he was unsure if it was dirt or dried blood that matted her hair on one side of her head. She stumbled up the gangplank, legs shaking. 

 What had he done? Finan promised...he promised to set her free. Not this. Never this. 

 Without a word, Master Sverri shoved her towards the front of the ship. There Finan could no longer see her. He was not sure if that was better or worse. 

 "IT WOULD APPEAR YOU DOGS NEED A REMINDER OF YOUR PLACE!" Hakka shouted at them, pacing the middle of the ship. He pointed at Halig, a sadistic smile on his face. "Grab him."

 Two of the other Danes, forcibly removed Halig from his shackle. Uhtred screamed, trying to fight the Danes but they only beat him back. Finan eventually grabbed Uhtred, holding him firmly while he screamed to let Halig go, begging to take Halig's place. Those screams fell on deaf ears, only increasing the taunts and laughter from the Danes dragging Halig away.

 "TIE HIM TO THE BOW, LET THE SEA KILL HIM!" Hakka cried out, watching the two Danes drag the injured slave towards the front of the ship. "LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU ALL!" 

 "NO!!!" Uhtred wailed. His words and screams almost unintelligible as they weaved together into an almost animalistic cry. His body shook violently, nails digging into Finan's arms, the only things keeping him rooted to his spot. 

 Glancing up above, Finan could see Master Sverri watching Uhtred with a smirk. He suddenly remembered when him and the other slaves were beaten after their failed escape...all but Halig. Master Sverri had said his punishment would come later...the bastard had been planning this. 

 Somehow, Finan promised himself, he would kill that devil.

 Right now, he just held a trembling Uhtred. He could feel his own anger and horror rising but he suppressed them. The care Uhtred had given his friend was obvious and this...Finan worried it would break him even more than the oars and the beatings. Being forced to listen to his friend's cries as the sea slowly drown him, it was enough to destroy any sane man. 

 Then the order came to start rowing. 

 "Uhtred, ya must." Finan whispered, when his friend refused to move. "That bastard is watchin' and I don't think he means to kill ya. He'd have done so."

 "Halig…" He whimpered.

 "He's a dead man walkin'. There's nothin' we can do for him now." 

The Irishman tried to console but noticed his own hands were shaking. How do you prepare yourself to listen to the slow death of a friend? You cannot. He wondered if this moment would haunt the rest of his life. 

 As if in a daze, Uhtred slowly moved back into his seat and grasped the oar. His silent sobs made his shoulder quiver. 

 Not even a few minutes later, Master Sverri came over to crouch above Uhtred. "The only reason you are not dead is because I am curious as to who you are."

 "PULL!" 

 "PULL!"

 "PULL AND GIVE HIM THE PEACE OF DEATH!" 

 It was once the distant sounds of Halig's cries finally faded that Master Sverri walked away. 

 Watching everything as he pulled his own oar, Finan wondered if it would be the oar and seas that killed him and Uhtred or their despair. His ears felt as if they were bleeding while hearing Halig slowly die. Yet it was the following silence that was even worse. Tears slipped down his own cheeks, catching in his beard. What life was this to continue living? 

 A sharp, distinctly feminine cry from the front reminded him that Aine was still aboard. 

 Rage filled him, overpowering his despair. It strengthened his body, sharpening his mind. He could not give in to death now. Quickly, he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. The despair and pain he shoved into the furthest recesses of his mind. Somehow, he had a promise to fulfill. To save a life and take another. 

 "Do not give up yet." He said aloud, both for himself and Uhtred. "Do not give up."

[themoonlits]

Title: THE CYCLE

Main Character(s): Seo Daehyeon.

Summary: Daehyeon had fallen into a routine he couldn't bring himself to get out of. To spend countless nights with unknown men, seeking intimacy in moments of lust and desire, but never truly getting what he craved, surrendering himself to moments of loneliness and rash decisions.

Warning(s): sexual content (no actual sex), potential slut-shaming, bad mental state, mentions of toxic relationships

When Daehyeon was growing up, he had been enticed by the prospect of fairytales and happy endings. He was fascinated by the idea of a true love so strong it would stand the harshest tests the sand of times used in an attempt to bury the romance. As Dae grew older day by day, so did his desire to fall in love. To fall so fast, that it would be impossible to avoid it. To fall so hard, that his body would never forget it. To fall so carelessly, that he would never regret it.

When Daeheyon was growing up, he left the idea of being in love alongside memories in the past. He threw himself overboard from his journey in finding his true love, and subsided into a sea of yearning instead. As Dae grew older day by day, so did his disdain for the concept of falling in love once again. To fall so fast, that the adrenaline of it all wouldn’t let the pain be felt until long after. To fall so hard, that there would be reminders in and on his body of how harsh the impact was. To fall so carelessly, that he would never make another move without any thought again.

The young idol shook the drink in his hand gently, only taking sips of the water whenever nobody was around so he could freely pull his mask down. He tried to submerge himself in the waves of music that illuminated the bar, without the tinge of alcohol rushing through his body. Water, because drinking alcohol on nights like this had already burned a regret so fiercely that Daehyeon still felt the flames of its pain. The bar had become both another home, and had become a thriving reminder of the countless mistakes Dae had made and the mistakes he was bound to make.

With how comfortable and acquainted Daehyeon had become with the constant hookups and one-night stands it wasn’t difficult for him to know which streets of Seoul to venture towards to find places that had what he was looking for. Never trying to become too familiar in a particular bar or club, in a specific part of Seoul, Dae spent countless nights bouncing between Itaewon and Jongno, sometimes going to buildings hidden in dark alleys and quiet streets.

He never made it a habit to visit a particular establishment too much: although Moonlit wasn’t booming with popularity, he wasn’t looking to take the risk. Plus, it was a hit or miss with the guys Dae spent the night at hotel rooms with.

Some of the guys were the type who Dae knew he’d never see again: the type who used Dae like an experiment. The ones who would fuck Dae without caring a bit for the idol’s pleasure or desire. Simply wanting to see if their attraction to men was something real or not, before slipping out of the room the moment they finished, never intending to return. If they realized they had no interest in men, Dae simply became a memory hidden in the darkest corners never letting the light reach. If they realized they had an interest in men, Dae was out of the question: they wanted someone who was made for a relationship, not someone who was good for spreading their legs within seconds.

Some of the guys were exactly what Daehyeon was looking for. Men who were on the same path of simply wanting a good fuck, no strings attached and no romance threatening to peek around the corner. If they both enjoyed their companies, they’d share numbers and solely contact whenever one wanted the other, no simple pleasantries.

Yeah, maybe Daehyeon was just something to be used to these men, but it wasn’t like it was any different for him. Being used meant being needed, and it had gotten to the point where as long as Dae felt needed, it was ok.

He suddenly felt someone slip into the seat next to him in the bar, looking from the corner of his eyes to see a guy who’s back was to the bar, idly sipping his drink. If it had been Dae’s first time out like this, he would’ve simply turned and continued to mind his business, but having spent so many nights like this he knew what it meant.

It wasn’t the easiest thing to simply walk up to someone and ask if they wanted to have a good time for countless reasons ranging from the awkwardness of it all, to the possibility of a blunt rejection. Little motions and movements like these were simpler and got the message across in a way that was solely known between the two people.

Daehyeon leaned back just a bit, to the point where he made eye-contact with the man and gave a small nod. He had a striking face, his straight brows highlighted his sharp eyes, cheekbones that would’ve made Dae think he was a model if he wasn’t so confident showing his face like this, and soft red lips that had a playful smile the moment he met Dae’s eyes.

It wasn’t even a moment after he got up and left towards the bathroom that Daehyeon followed, leaving his water at the bar. Taking barely a step into the bathroom, he felt a hand grasp onto his wrist, tugging him into one of the stalls. Dae slipped off his mask almost out of habit, ready to speak before he felt lips pressed against his.

A surge of worry spread through his body like a bolt of electricity, feeling the man’s hands grab onto his back pulling Dae closer into him. However, the momentarily worry fades when he finds himself seeping into the kiss, letting his desire take a hold of him.

A gentle gasp slips from his lips at the man’s sudden movement to Dae’s ass, grabbing a hold of it as he pushes Dae back against the stall wall, the gasp allowing for his tongue to touch against Dae’s. The daze that the idol’s become far too familiar with, the feeling flourishing from his mind to throughout his body was what he was craving the moment he stepped into the bar. The feeling of being wanted; the feeling of being needed.

Daehyeon couldn’t stop himself from moaning into the nameless man’s mouth as he got harsher with his hands, squeezing his ass with both a sense of desperation and lust. He left himself in the mercy of the stranger, allowing for the latter to take full control and lead Dae however he wished.

It wasn’t until both men were out of breath that they pulled away, locking eyes again for what seemed like only the second time before he made a move once again, this time his hands darting towards Dae’s jeans only for the idol to stop him.

“Hold on, I’m not getting my back blown out in a bathroom stall.”

“I thought that’s why you followed me?” the man’s voice was smothered in a tone that made the question falter more like a statement, Dae having to stop his knees from feeling weak when he heard the deep raspiness emitting from his words.

“Ok, well, yeah. Definitely wouldn’t mind getting my back blown out, but bathrooms aren’t my thing.”

“Speaking from experience?” the man now had the slightest smirk growing on his face, leaning over just to the point where his shoulder was resting on the opposite wall.

“Maybe, maybe.” Daehyeon ran a hand through his hair, licking the same lips he wished were still pressed up against the lips of the man in front of him. “Not planning to try it out again here, though.”

The man whose eyes seemed to dance with a light-hearted brightness that rivaled the bright lights of the bar outside simply took a moment to catch his breath, idly looking Daehyeon up and down as if he was questioning if he was worth something more than a quickie right next to a toilet.

“Fine. Let’s go.” his words were brief and lacked any real care, as if he was the one in full control of what happened tonight; as if Daehyeon was simply just something from him to tug along until he no longer wanted him around. And maybe that was the truth.

The two left the bathroom together, neither making any type of move to look as if they were together; it was simply the man who smelt like the most cautious mixture of cigarettes and the woods walking in front, while Dae idly trailed behind him. It wasn’t until they were both out of the bar that the idol finally matched his pace, walking side by side to the man who was just moments ago feeling every part of his body, only to walk now as if he had little to no care if Dae would follow.

“So, can I get a name?”

“Nah.” Daehyeon only smiled at what he assumed to be a joke from the man, only for the smile to fall as fast as it appeared when he realised he was completely serious. “It’s not like you need it, and it’s not like we’ll see each other after tonight. I know a cheap hotel, c’mon.”

Daehyeon grew silent, realizing any idle chatter created in an attempt to lay down a comfortable environment was not needed. It wasn’t rare for Dae to meet someone like this, after all he’d fucked married businessmen who made it seem as if they didn’t even want to know anything about Dae aside from how he looked bent over a bed. It wasn’t uncommon for Dae to feel like a slut on nights like these, after all he had since long lost track of the number of men he let fuck him in the most questionable manners and places.

However, he was more than fine with feeling like that.

Daehyeon didn’t mind feeling like a slut or being called a slut, because it was the truth.

Daehyeon didn’t mind it, because he would much rather wear his scarlet letter brightly on his chest, than to let his heart beat on his sleeves. Being used as someone who was just good for a quick fuck, sometimes not even in private, and sometimes not even with a care for his own pleasure, was much better than being someone who was vulernable to having his heart stolen from him; to have each aorta ripped out in the name of love, each valve ripped open, leaving nothing for himself while having given everything to someone else.

Before, Daehyeon was drowning in the waves of bad memories that someone he once so clearly loved and cared for, had decided to pull the tide against him. Every time he attempted to raise himself up, another wave simply crashed into him, always casted upon him by the people he loved but never truly loved him.

Now, Daehyeon had decided to simply float amongst the countless waves, instead of fighting against them.

It was different now. Rather than being vulnerable to pain that he would never see coming, Daehyeon was in control of what happened to him. Maybe he got hurt every so often, but it was different to be in charge of the hurt, than to be hurt by others.

[themusicview]

We woke up one morning and fell a little further down - a Godspeed You! Black Emperor retrospective - Pt. 3: Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven

Godspeed assembled their second album from the same building blocks as the first, but approached it from a much more high level view. The pure eye for composition present on f#a# is present, but is augmented by a touch of cinematic that gives this album, if not a definitive storyline, then a definitive arc. There are four tracks on this album, each over 20 minutes long and comprised of several movements.

The opening of this album is a beautiful build. It starts off almost completely quiet, a lightly plucked guitar and horns pushed deep into the mix allow the early track to breathe. Slowly, more and more instruments are added to the build, escalating almost to the point of insanity. Every time you think the build is over, they find another melody or playing trick or instrument to take it one level higher. It’s almost like the build itself can’t handle it as the track seemingly explodes at the end into a stream of scintillating violins slowly floating down.

They float down to a track that almost sounds like amazing grace. In a similar manner this track escalates, though it features far more stings and fuzz guitars. It almost feels like the shout of joy that a newly created world gives. Godspeed are not christian, but this does speak to me on a faith based level. This may be the christian aspects of my education talking, but it’s almost edenic the way everything in this track seems to be in perfect harmony.

The next section is when humanity learns to sin. The amazing grace riff gets cut off at the neck, the strings tremolo in panic. Thudding sounds and wailing flutes lead us into a section where everything is falling to hell. I hope you liked the brightness, it seems to say, because it is all darkness from here on in. The animals are scrabbling for the cliff edge. All is ruined. This is why I say that this album is cinematic, it twists and turns like a movie. It’s almost as though you’re hearing the introduction of a villain or conflicting force.

A sample from a gas station leads into a haunting piano piece. Menueck seems to pound the keys, in a Beethoven-esque cry of anguish. Military radio chatter drones out in the background, the only part of it understandable being, “It’s gonna be a long long time.” And, in a way, the chatter is entirely correct, it will be a long time for the trauma of this to heal. It is the sonic equivalent of looking out at the darkened plains, radio towers stretching into the distance, from the last lit building for miles around. A gas station on the plains your last sign of civilization in black seas of infinity.

The second track walks into that darkness with a drone. This one seems stable, as though the issue isn’t going away any time soon. “It’s gonna be a long long time”, after all. An atomic clock belts out the time in UTC, which leads into a preacher having a mental breakdown. A wailing violin, an upright bass, and a guitar soundtracks this moment. It’s a profoundly sad moment, her words seem even more unbelievable due to the effects on her voice. It’s equivalent to seeing a hobo ranting to God, only in this case that god more than likely isn’t there. Moments like these make me doubt Godspeed’s connection to Christianity. The band has discussed judaism in connection to their music, and this feels more apt in a Jewish context of faith. The painful absence of God is a major factor in the Kaballistic tradition, and in Judaism as a whole. This leads into a quiet plucked string section reminiscent of F#A#, and this is where the second track’s build becomes overwhelming. Tempo and texture are brought to the fore. The track ends on a drone as well, it’s barely even there, the primordial soup that we all come out of and return to when we die. It’s easily the darkest moment on the album, feeling less like a complete thing and more a handful of transitions. A gallery of people and places at their very lowest.

The third track, sleep, brings in nostalgia. Mourning what is lost. It opens with an elderly man discussing Coney Island, the amusement park in New York that has been relegated to a shadow of its former self. Its primary emotion is sadness for what has been lost. As detailed by the following section with a long slow build to a beautiful crashing conclusion. An inner city western not out of place in the road. One thing that I haven’t really mentioned in any detail is Mike Moya and Efrim Menueck’s screwdriver guitar technique. It can be very difficult to do these sounds in a way that is interesting or easy to digest, but their combination of effects make the guitar sound like singing almost. It seems almost a part of this grand tradition that most independent musicians have participated in where they make their guitars sound like anything but guitars. The true highlight of this track is the second build. It is the breaking of the dawn after the fall to the darkness, the moment where hope pushes back against the doom and gloom. A glockenspiel, like a point of light in the distance, announces its presence against a carpet of droning blackness. The rest of the track is one massive build, the last push to restore the old world, good and bad. From this point forward, hope is the primary emotion.

If sleep is the climax, the fourth and final track, antennas to heaven, is the denouement. The end of this album will make you cry. Just accept it now. It’s just a brilliantly done ending. Despite a strange folk rock opening, where Mike Moya sings a folk song about abusing an infant, we transition into a drone. Far lighter than any other drone on the album, it relaxes and uplifts rather than oppressing. The middle section of this track, “she dreamt she was a bulldozer…”, is your reward for making it through the darkness that is this album. The violin section in this track is almost saccharine, in many ways, it’s the best song Explosions in the Sky never made. The ending of this album is a beautiful float down to peace, it gently leaves you and allows you to return to reality.

It is difficult to escape the idea that Lift Your Skinny Fists is a concept album. However, it is not a concept album in the way that Ziggy Stardust or Good Kid Maad City is a concept album. Instead, Lift Your Skinny Fists serves as a brilliant soundtrack to a film that doesn’t exist. A film that is full of heroes and villains, saviors and savants, tragedy and triumph. But ultimately, as Godspeed is want for, packed to the brim with hope. It is a hope that they would throw to the side to explore the musical aspects of their style in the follow up.