#the ink smudge on his cheek kills me EVERY TIME

[covenofthearticulate]

[jaskierswolf]

Mayhaps a wild take : Geralt folds the corners of his precious, centuries old, valuable beyond compare, bestiaries. Jaskier sees and loses his marbles. ( Then gifts geralt a book mark with pressed.. somehow familiar flowers... 👀 )

Hi, hello... So... I got carried away? This is 2.1k? I hope you like it!

CW: mentions of injury (on Jaskier)

________

Monsters mutate. They adapt, change, grow. Geralt was clearly a very skilled witcher with decades of experience, and Jaskier never grew bored of watching him fight, on the rare occasions he was actually allowed to watch that is. Most of the time, he had to make do with second-hand stories told by Geralt himself, which just wasn’t the same. But, sometimes, just sometimes, Geralt would deem the contract safe enough for Jaskier to trail along with a silver dagger gripped in his hands, and sometimes... Geralt got it wrong.

Jaskier was poking at his bandaged thigh where the drowner had bitten him, already beginning to stain red as the blood oozed from the wound. It hadn’t needed stitches but it still stung. The fight, however, oh the fight had been surprisingly spectacular. It was a small drowner nest just outside of town, attacking nearby fisherman along the beach, nothing that Jaskier hadn’t seen before and certainly not ballad worthy, but he’d tagged along regardless. He never wanted to pass up the opportunity to see Geralt in action. The witcher was just so beautiful, dancing with his sword in hand, all grace and elegance and fury. Jaskier was entranced every time. It was truly a miracle he didn’t get hurt more often.

The drowners had been fast, faster than they should have been, and now Geralt was muttering about mutations and skin pigments as he scratched words into a worn out copy of a bestiary. The witcher has borrowed one of Jaskier’s least expensive ink sets to update the centuries old book. It broke Jaskier’s heart to see such a beautiful book treated so poorly but he understood that it needed updating to keep his witcher safe.

The poor book though.

Academics at Oxenfurt would kill to get their hands on it. It would have been treated with the utmost respect, kept away from the grubby hands of the first and second years, only allowed out for special projects, and here was Geralt, covering it in his appalling handwriting, bloody fingerprints and dirt smudges in the margins.

“Oh bollocks,” Jaskier hissed as he jabbed at the bandages a little too hard, his restless energy getting the better of him. The witcher always told him off for picking and scratching at his bandages and scabs, but he couldn’t help it. They were just so scratchable, and the itching drove him mad!

Geralt sighed, glancing up at Jaskier with an exasperated expression. He took one look at Jaskier’s bandage and…

And he fucking folded the corner of his page before closing the book.

Jaskier saw red. He stammered and pointed at the pages, gaping as he tried to find the right words to express his utter outrage. “You-You… Geralt!” he whined.

The witcher’s brow furrowed and he looked between the book and the bard, obviously completely confused by Jaskier’s sudden change in mood. “What?”

“You did not just fold down the pages!”

“Yes?”

Jaskier scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, dear witcher, you and I are taking a trip to Oxenfurt immediately!”

Geralt scowled, looking at Jaskier as if he’d grown a second head. “Why?”

“Geralt, please. Don’t make me suffer your cruelty any longer,” Jaskier pleaded.

The witcher rolled his eyes but didn’t argue any further. He just took Jaskier’s hands in his, keeping them away from the bandages. Jaskier blushed, the gap between them suddenly feeling too small and yet too far all at once. He swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden swell of nerves in his chest, and laced their fingers together, smiling shyly up at the witcher.

______

By the time they reached Oxenfurt, Jaskier’s limp had almost entirely gone. He still got tired quickly and by the end of the day he had to lean on Geralt or ride Roach until they found a suitable camping spot. Geralt had been ridiculously caring, obviously looking out for Jaskier at every opportunity, their days were shorter and well… Jaskier had actually been allowed to ride Roach. That was new. Holding hands had now become almost normal, and Geralt was just so gentle when he took care of the bandages, making sure the bite wound wasn’t infected. It made Jaskier’s heart do all sorts of acrobatics in his chest.

If he hadn’t been in love with the witcher, then he certainly would be after all of this-this… nonsense.

When Geralt wasn’t looking then he crouched at the side of the road, picking up a variety of buttercups and cornflowers and slipping them inside his heaviest poetry book. The supplies he needed from Oxenfurt were specialist ones. He hadn’t made bookmarks in ages, not since his days at the Academy, but he used to make them for all his friends. It was something to do with his hands that didn’t feel like work, and he had always enjoyed giving gifts. He was looking forward to getting back into his old hobby.

“Why are we here, Jaskier?” Geralt groused, glaring around the town with his scary witcher face. Jaskier felt a little bit bad for dragging Geralt back into a busy city but it was important.

He scoffed and waved a hand at the witcher. “You’ll see,” he said with a grin, and booped Geralt on the nose. “Don’t be nosy.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed back, sticking out his tongue. “You know your way to my rooms at the Academy?” Geralt nodded. “Excellent! I will see you there in time for dinner, but I have shopping to do. Did you need any potion ingredients?”

Geralt cocked his head, his brow furrowing as he thought. “Blowballs.”

Jaskier grinned and brushed his lips against Geralt’s cheeks before he could chicken out. “Be good, darling, no scaring my colleagues.”

The witcher smirked. “Unless it’s Valdo?”

Jaskier laughed, “Unless it’s Valdo.”

And then they went their separate ways. Jaskier easily navigated the streets of Oxenfurt, basking in the hustle and bustle of the city. It was alive and thriving, as if it had a beating heart of its own. The witcher may hate the city but Jaskier lived for it. He was a bard, a man of the people. He needed to be seen, loved, adored. The bookshop was in the same place that it had been when he was a student, tucked away in the backstreets, only known by the students and professors. Jaskier grinned and slipped inside, the bell ringing as he pushed up the door.

He let his fingers trail along the leather spines of the books, inhaling the musky scent of paper and old parchment. It smelled like home, and a warmth settled in his heart. He knew this shop like the back of his hand, and he easily found the supplies he needed. The pressed flowers from the road would be fixed onto a soft leather strap, and then Jaskier would cut the end into smaller strips, creating a kind of tassel. He also planned to engrave an inscription into the leather, something lyrical, something poetic… something for Geralt to remember him by when they were apart.

“Gods, I’m pathetic,” he mumbled as he worked. His tongue flicked between his lips as it so often did when he needed to concentrate. Each letter took time, a delicate process, and he sat in the little corner at the back of the shop, just as he had in his youth. After an hour the owner, now an old man with a thick grey beard, brought him a cup of herbal tea. Jaskier smiled up at him, and gestured to his work.

“How’s it looking? I’m, well, I’m a little out of practice,” he hummed, scrunching up his nose.

“It’s beautiful, and it’s good to see you back here, Jaskier. It’s been too long. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten us.”

“Oh, no. I would never!” Jaskier reassured him, “and thank you. This one is special.”

The shop owner chuckled. “You used to say that every time.”

Jaskier grinned sheepishly. “This one is extra special.”

He stayed later than he intended, past the closing time of the bookshop, and certainly past dinner time but he just lost track of time, too focused on his task. By the time he finished, Geralt’s bookmark was a work of art. The inscription was written in his finest calligraphy, and the flowers were arranged just perfectly. It had been made with love.

He just hoped that Geralt liked it.

When Jaskier made it back to his room, Geralt was perched on the corner of the bed, a needle and thread in his hands as he made repairs to his armour. His silver hair was loose and falling in front of his eyes, and there were the beginnings of a beard growing on his cheeks. The witcher’s golden slitted eyes were almost completely black in the dim light of the room, and Jaskier was once again envious of his friend’s ability to see in the dark. It was a handy skill, and he looked almost ethereal as the light bounced off his eyes, making them glow.

“Dinner was two hours ago,” Geralt murmured, not looking up from his sewing.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and he scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, umm…, yes, well…”

“Jaskier.”

“You know how I get?”

“Hmm.”

His friend finally looked back up at him, giving Jaskier a soft fond smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Jaskier stuck his tongue out, “Don’t hum at me, witcher, I’m fluent in Geralt speak!”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being obtuse, and don’t you dare…” Geralt hummed again. “Stop it! You bastard. I’m not giving you your present now.”

“Present?” Geralt cocked his head, looking stunned by Jaskier’s revelation.

“Ha! That got you, oh shit, cock it. It was meant to be a surprise. Fuck!” he groaned and buried his face in his hands. The bookmark was tucked away in his bag but it seemed to be taunting him, and he was suddenly struck by the fear that Geralt would hate it.

Fucking buttercups.

He was an idiot.

Why would a witcher want flowers on a bookmark?

“You got me a present?”

Jaskier nodded “I made you a present, Geralt.”

The witcher looked completely taken aback, a blush painting his cheeks. He set his needle and thread aside, and reached out for Jaskier. It was almost instinct at that point to reach back, taking Geralt’s hands in his. “Can I see?”

Jaskier glanced at his satchel and sighed. “Yes, yeah. Yes, of course. Umm, wait here.”

With shaking hands he plucked the cloth bundle from his satchel and handed it to Geralt, mentally preparing himself for the worst. At least he was already in Oxenfurt, he wouldn’t have to travel alone when the witcher inevitably decided to dump him. Gods, he was such a fool.

Geralt gingerly unfolded the dark blue cloth, humming as he picked up the bookmark. “Buttercups?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Jaskier cleared his throat. “Yes?”

��To my dearest, Geralt. May your days be filled with Destiny, heroics, and love. Ever yours, Jaskier.” Geralt read the words aloud and Jaskier wanted to sink into the floor. It was ridiculous. They weren’t even that good. He was supposed to be a poet for Lilit’s sake.

“It’s shit. I’m sorry, I’m tired, what with my leg healing and the rush to get here, but I just… you fold down the corners of your page, Geralt. I could not sit by and let that happen, and I-I… ah fuck it. I wanted you to have something to remember me by, you know,” he gave a flick of his wrist, one hand resting on his hip, “when you’re stuck up in that mysterious witcher keep of yours, and well, you probably don’t remember but I-I said you smelled like-”

“Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak, I remember.”

“Oh, umm… well yes. Death and heartbreak seemed a bit… dramatic? So, I-I changed it… to love.”

“Thank you, Julek,” Geralt murmured, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss that was over before Jaskier could even process what was happening.

He stared wide-eyed up at his friend, his heart racing and the whole universe shifted until Geralt was at the centre, burning brightly in the dark. Jaskier cupped the nape of Geralt’s neck and pulled him back into another kiss, and this time they didn’t break apart, their lips moving in tandem. It was slow, lazy even. There was no rush, just the two of them against the world, their breaths mingling and their hearts beating as one.

[cryptiql]

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

[harrenhalyuri]

for us, the wounds kissed long before the lips

23rd of Sun's Dawn, 1E 461, Alessian Empire.

During the coronation of Emperor Gorieus, the Hortator and the head of House Dagoth steal a moment for themselves.

tags: drinking & talking; angst; one-sided relationship; attempt at worldbuilding

ao3 version here

They stumbled forward laughing and shushing one another as the heavy oak doors closed behind them - the warmth and merry of the coronation feast left behind as the two stepped out into the garden.

Nerevar recalled walking the streets of Nirnbuldihr - the cyan glow of the giant mushrooms reflecting on the windows of several shops. One in particular caught his eye, and he crossed the cobblestone sidewalk to inspect it more closely. Blown glass sculptures, colorful and intricate in the way the dwemer favored.

His favorite had been a piece hidden in the back of the window, as if outshined by more complex, elaborate pieces upfront. It had been a white glass diorama, depicting a cottage surrounded by trees swaying in the breeze - the sort of simplicity the dwemer had no interest in.

The garden reminded him of that diorama - covered in a blanket of snow, completely undisturbed by the world around it.

Voryn pulled him under the arches that covered the path to the guest wing, but the Hortator held him back.

“No, let us stay for a bit.” He answered, arm still draped around the back of his friend’s neck as he stepped on the soft snow. Voryn sighed, yet allowed Nerevar to lead him.

“Frolicking amidst the cold? Do you plan on inviting the Nords to join us?” The head of House Dagoth said snidely as he crossed his arms to warm himself.

Nerevar laughed and shoved him away.

“The snow never belonged to those s’wits, you’re simply thin-blooded from living under the shadow of a volcano.”

“Perhaps, and rightly so.”

The snow softly crunched under their boots as they wandered near a tree - now completely stripped of leaves, its gnarled branches seemed to reach towards the sky.

“It always snows in Akamora.” Nerevar inhaled deeply, enjoying how his lungs burned as he took in the crisp, cool air. “In the mountains, at least. The paths are sharp and winding, and it freezes over during winter. No caravans may come or go, not until Sun’s Dawn.”  

The Hortator grabbed a handful of snow, the ice leeching the warmth of his skin through the kagouti leather gloves. Absent-mindedly he shaped it until a white sphere rested on his palm. Secunda and Masser bore down on them - the moon glow glinting on the high windows of Skingrad’s castle.

Nerevar recalled the moon glow glinting on the tip of ice spikes, sharp enough to be spears, at the highest peak of Akamora.

Azura had come to him then, for the first time, to bestow Moon-and-Star upon the captain - his fingers had been so stiff from the cold that he could barely feel them anymore, the goddess’s touch as foreign as the ring she had slipped on his finger.

When he came down from the mountain, the first ashlanders had hailed him Hortator, and it had felt just as foreign as the ring on his finger.  

“It must be rather grim.” Voryn commented, the cyrodilic brandy swirling inside the bottle as he brought it to his lips. The distaste in his face was plain to see - it couldn’t hold a candle to the Dagoth brandy.  

Nerevar smiled, his short-lived melancholia forgotten.

“How can you say that? Short-tempered caravan masters, cheap mazte and all the comforts of a straw bed...” The captain delighted at Voryn’s growing distaste as he spoke. The head of House Dagoth was a creature of comfort and status, something that had made the duo different as the sun and the moon.    

"Lovely, I'm sure." Voryn replied with a sour expression. Nerevar laughed.

"For a researcher, you spent far too much time cocooned up in Kogoruhn." The Hortator recalled several jars containing fungi species and creatures preserved in a strong alcoholic solution, one more outlandish than the other. In his curiosity, the captain had pestered Voryn with questions until he nearly dropped one of the jars. The head of House Dagoth had snapped at him to stop before he accidentally unleashed a deadly plague and got them both killed.

That had been many years ago, before the war, when Nerevar was still seeking support from the great houses. The somber, willowy lord that had greeted him in Kogoruhn had been the first to join him - his support had been won easily, but his friendship had not.  

"And due to that, couriers are eternally indebted to House Dagoth. Why would I waste my precious time wandering through mud in a thrice-damned swamp?” The councilor huffed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Nerevar laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“And what if your Hortator commanded you to?”

The previous distaste vanished in a second as the sharp, haughty aristocratic features softened; the ruby-colored gaze meeting his, warm as the liquor sloshing inside the bottle.

“I’d wander until time itself ceased to be if Muthsera willed so.” Despite the devotion, the lord councilor had steel in his voice; unwavering as the very core of Nirn.

Nerevar let the snow sphere fall to the ground, the reverence in those words overwhelming as he broke his gaze away, before joining the councilor on the stone bench. The orange glow of a candle reflected on the windows above; a small flickering flame moving as a servant crossed the corridor. The former captain followed it until the speckle of light vanished behind stone walls.

“I miss it.” He blurted out, seized by a deep longing as the world seemed to be reduced into that snow-covered, unperturbed garden; as if its two occupants were the only souls in Nirn.

“By the Three, how I miss it! To Oblivion with those titles and thrones and crowns; I miss the road, I miss the ache after a long day’s march and falling on the straw at night too tired to think.” Nerevar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands. Azura had blessed him with the strength to carry the title of Hortator, yet he craved the simplicity of being nothing more than a captain, with no past nor future beyond the next town.

The Hortator missed walking through the crowded streets of the bazaars; the cramped food stalls with ill-tempered merchants that served meals with enough spices to burn his tongue; the shady cornerclubs where you had to watch both your tongue and your coin purse.  

Now he signed papers, spoke with lords, and followed the proper etiquette befitting his rank; he watched the streets through the high windows of his palace, as if his brethren were tiny ants. The former captain pulled his hands away and felt a tear roll down the bridge of his nose; the liquor was truly getting to his head. He placed a hand on his councilor’s knee; the several layers of red wool soft under his glove.

“Let’s leave - just the two of us and the road ahead, like it was before the war. We’ll name ourselves whatever we wish, we’ll sleep under the stars and chew on marshmerrow pieces as we travel.”

“Where shall we go, sweet Nerevar?” The young lord played along; his voice soft as a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the stillness around them.

“Wherever you desire - do you still wonder about Hammerfell? I’ll take you to see the dunes that stretch as far as the sun, you’ll study their beetles and giant scorpions for as long as you wish, then we can drink qishr and break bread with the nomads.” Nerevar found himself smiling as he recalled the heat of the desert and the loose, colorful fabrics the natives wore.

He turned around and reached for the bottle, fingers brushing against his confidant’s. Only then, Nerevar realized his councilor had forgotten his gloves inside the hall; the golden skin contrasting against the snow, the long, elegant fingers trembling with the cold.

“Oh, Voryn.” The former captain frowned, quickly pulling his own gloves off and taking hold of the other’s wrist; the scarlet nails vanishing into the supple leather as he adjusted the glove.

“Remember when you fell sick, five days after we departed Kogoruhn? We had to-” The sentence fell on deaf ears, vanishing under the branches heavy with snow as lips met his, swallowing his words with hunger. A hand connected with his chest, closing into a fist as Voryn pulled him closer; as if it weren’t enough.

Distant and haughty Voryn, who ate sparingly and never smudged the red paint he wore on his lips, bit the Hortator’s lower lip before pulling back; eyes half-lidded as he brushed the tip of his nose against Nerevar’s in a silent plea.

The ink-colored hair contrasted against the pale golden skin; the black fur collar brushing against the captain’s chin; a pale pink blooming on his cheeks, either from cold, the brandy, or something else-

Heart hammering against his ribcage, blood drumming on his ears; it was the slightest tilt of his face that thrice-damned him as Voryn’s lips smashed against his; a devotion he was unworthy of every time their tongues met; muffled prayers in form of sighs and whimpers.  

Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy. A voice whispered in his mind, taunting him; in his mind’s eye he saw peach-colored lips curled in derision, teeth bared like a wolf’s. Almalexia’s snarl.

Somewhere, a door groaned open and the sounds of the feast reached the garden, shattering their sanctuary; the weight of being Hortator came crashing down on his shoulders. Nerevar pulled back as if he had been burned, his palm on the young lord’s shoulder firmly holding the other back. He looked down, unable to face the confusion, the longing. Too much, it was too much. His hair was disheveled, pale strands falling against his face and he felt grateful for the cover.

“Nerevar-” The head of House Dagoth began, voice hoarse and breathless.

“Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, I’ve wanted-”

“It was a mistake.”

“Oh.” Voryn inhaled sharply as if his lungs had suddenly been emptied.

“I’ve...I drank more than I should have. We both have.” His words feel hollow, and he can no longer tell if the bitter taste on his tongue belonged to the brandy, or the shame. The silence stretched; neither dared to move.

“I see.” His voice is flat, devoid of emotion; the usual aloofness reserved for others. Out of the corner of his eye, Nerevar watched him straighten his posture; the dark hair falling like a curtain, obscuring half of his face.  

Other guests left the feast; their chatter and laughter permeated the garden as they walked down the path to the other wing of the castle. Nerevar felt the red gaze pinned to his back, yet no words left his lips. He watched the snow under his boots; watery and muddy as it mixed with the dirt below.

At last, he heard the rustling of fabric as Voryn rose to his feet; impeccable posture as he towered over the Hortator.

“May this servant be excused, Muthsera?” The words rolled easily off his tongue; the sharp formality of it made Nerevar wince.

The Hortator forced himself to lift his head and face his long-time friend; clad in red wool and black fur, the snowflakes melting on the long, inky hair; the blank expression betraying nothing, except for his lips; the red paint had been smudged, contorting their shape.

“Yes.”

From the cradle, the heir of House Dagoth had been taught the games of persuasion and deceit; a master in concealing his thoughts behind a mask.

Nerevar took a hollow, cowardly comfort in it.

Voryn Dagoth bowed before him, as etiquette mandated, before vanishing into the corridor; the sound of his footsteps hammering inside the Hortator’s head until they vanished, leaving him with nothing but a headache and the cold.

After finishing the bottle by himself, the former captain laid in bed, watching the moons slowly crossing the sky through the windows; his dreams haunted by both his closest friend and his wife; one seeming to shift into the other as they pinned him against the sheets; ever-hungry as they sought out his lips.

It was late morning when he rose; mouth dry and head throbbing like it had been split open with an axe. The hearth had been tended to recently, the fire crackling as it consumed the logs. He turned in bed, still wrapped around the sheets.

Voryn will understand, he understands the importance of duty better than anyone. He reasoned with himself.

A single kagouti glove on the floor, as if someone had pushed it under the door.

Across the hallway, a lord painted his lips red; immaculately framing the natural shape of his lips. His unbalanced emotions shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces when his fingers trembled for a second and a smudge appeared.

Duty, he’s devoted to duty, the lord repeated mentally, as he collected the shards.

[a-simple-lee]

Just like old times (TMA)

Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Synopsis: Tim can be a bully. Sasha’s prepared to take him down a notch as part of an old tradition of theirs.

“Tim, please-”

“I’m just saying, you could’ve gotten his number-”

“His number-? wh-I-”

“If not for you, then for me, I mean-”

“Tim!”

“What? He sounds cute.”

“Oh my God.”

Sasha tries to stifle a laugh at her colleagues’ banter. Martin has his face buried in his hands, sunkissed curls peeking out over the tops of his fingers as he ducks to run them through his hair. His freckles have disappeared behind a positively glowing blush.

“Tim, stop bullying him,” 

“But it’s so easy-”

“Hey!” Martin raises his head at that, eyebrows furrowed in a way Sasha has to stop herself from calling adorable. 

“Haven’t you done enough damage?” She smiles, nodding in his direction. He lets out a sigh of relief, as if Sasha is the only one in the office talking sense (she often is).

“Thank you, Sasha.” 

“...Hold on. You’re still not over your crush, are you Martin?” Tim practically lights up with the realisation. “That’s why you didn’t make a move, huh?”

Martin lets out a squeak of indignation, dropping the pen Sasha had been watching him tap against his wrist for the past 20 minutes in what she guesses is a nervous tic. 

“Oh, Marto,” Tim rubs his hands together, and Sasha refrains from telling him he looks like a fly cleaning its antennae. 

“Tim,” She starts, stepping over to him. “Leave the poor boy alone,”

“Yes, listen to Sasha-” Martin nods frantically.

“He’s perfectly capable of embarrassing himself.” She takes a sip of her tea and listens to Martin spluttering for a second. 

“Uh-well, that’s- I- How very dare you.”

Tim grins. “If you just tell us who it is, it’d make things a lot easier-”

“Tim,” Sasha elbows him in the side. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

Tim elbows her back. “Sasha,” he gestures to Martin. “He can speak for himself.”

“I-it’s fine, Sasha, you’re right-”

Sasha reaches over to pat Martin’s shoulder, and the nervous rambling halts.

“Right, are you going to leave him alone then?” Sasha gently pushes Tim.

“But who am I going to pester?” He frowns.

“We both know you only pester us when you want attention,” Sasha tosses a pen at him. He catches it.

“It’s working so far,”

Something clicks into place in Sasha’s head. 

“Alright, fine. Let’s say you’ve got my attention. Now what?”

Tim glances to the ceiling, a tell Sasha’s learned to pick up on. She knows he’s trying to think of an answer. His eyes light up, and he points to his cheek with the pen. “You could give me a kiss?”

She giggles, deciding not to point out that he’s just smudged ink on his face. “Pretty sure Martin doesn’t want to be subject to our workplace fraternisation.” 

“But Sasha-” Tim wiggles his eyebrows and lowers his voice. “It’s not fraternisation if we don’t get caught.”

There’s her cue. She reaches over and squeezes his side. 

“Tim, you’re despicable.”

He shifts away, suppressing a laugh. “Hey, now-”

“What?” She grins, stepping closer to poke at his ribs. It’s no secret that Tim isn’t one to shy away from physical affection, though perhaps less known that he’s not averse to being tickled. Every now and then, Tim will try to initiate a tickle fight through playful roughhousing or banter, and Sasha will eventually get the message. 

She certainly doesn’t mind humoring Tim’s attempts at provocation if it means getting to watch her best friend giggle uncontrollably. Her hands poke up and down Tim’s ribs, following when he leans away - he’s perfectly capable of stepping out of range, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, batting weakly at her hands and backing himself into a corner.

“Sash!” He squeaks, signature Stoker grin morphed into a beaming smile, letting out a high-pitched giggle when Sasha lightly squeezes his sides.

“Yes?”

“You’re-ha-killing me! She’s killing me, Martin!”

Martin puts down his mug and resumes typing, not even looking their way. “What a pity.”

“Please, you’ve gotta save me, Martin!”

“Leave him out of this,” Sasha tuts. “He knows not to intervene.”

Martin snorts. “Just common sense, really.”

“Fine, fine! I- SASHA!” Tim all but screeches when she moves to target his stomach, sinking down slightly and stumbling backwards into his chair. Sasha can’t help but start laughing, and Tim’s trying to glare daggers at her, only he’s blushing way too hard and smiling much too widely for Sasha to take him seriously. It’s silly, and childish, but this dance of jovial affection is theirs, and she wouldn’t change it for the world.

And then Jon clears his throat from his place in the doorway. 

Tim sits up straight in his chair, hair still askew, residual giggles still lacing his voice. “Hey, boss!”

Jon nods stiffly. “Hello.” The both of them take a second exchanging a look Sasha can’t quite decipher. She thinks of the time in Research, when she’d entered the room on lunch break to see Jon and Tim swatting at one another like siblings having a disagreement. Of the way Jon knew to prod at Tim’s torso to get him to back off, or the way Tim knew to tweak one of Jon’s ribs in retaliation. 

It feels like years ago, but she knows - she can tell - none of them have forgotten.

“You have ink on your face.” Jon observes. Tim sends a pointed glance in Sasha’s direction. She shrugs at him.

“Right, thanks. I’ll get that sorted.”

There’s a pause. 

“Did you, uh-”  Tim gestures to the pile of files Jon’s cradling. “Did you need something?”

Jonathan blinks. “Yes, actually, uh. Sorry to interrupt your lunch break. I amended the errors you pointed out in those recordings last week, Tim. I’d appreciate it if you could swap out the tapes on the shelves.” Jon starts, briskly striding to his desk and sliding two cassettes onto the free space by the keyboard. 

“Right, cheers.” Tim looks dazed. They both do. 

Jon gives another nod, heading back towards his office. Sasha watches him go. 

He pauses at the doorway.

“Oh, and Sasha?”

“Yes?”

“You should know by now to go for his neck.”

The door swings shut. Sasha grins as Tim starts trying to improvise a peace treaty on the spot.

Some things never change.

[thefloorisbalaclava]

absolutely in love with everything you write - thank you so so much 😭😍 I’m a creative too and got so absorbed in my painting today and now my hand is killing but it got me thinking about how frankie would be with you during all that... like - how he’d stare at you while you’re super immersed in painting/sketching/writing and you’d be able to feel his eyes on you the whole time and how he’d rub and massage and kiss your hands when they ache at the end of the day from holding a pencil/typing for so long 😭 honey i am yearning

Okay I love this because I can definitely imagine him doing this.

He'd watch with nothing but awe and love in his eyes as you work. He chuckles when you scratch at an itch on your face and end up getting ink or paint smudged there. The TV is on but he keeps it low so you can concentrate. Besides, he's not really watching it, he's too busy watching you--the way your nose scrunches up, the way you bite your lip, the way you bite on the end of the pen when you concentrate--he loves it all.

He notices when you move away from your computer, tablet, or notebook that you shake your hand and flex it with a wince. Before you can go back to work, he's stopping you, grabbing your hand and kissing it gently.

"Let's take a break, hm?" He smiles as you look at him and nod. You don't know how he got so good at massaging but you melt into his touch every time. He rubs each finger, in between, the laces his fingers with yours and presses carefully to flex the muscle. He kneads gently and if you wince when he touches a particular area he gives you a look.

"I know...I should've stopped earlier but..."

"...you had to finish or you would never want to look at it again. I know," he teases. He kisses your hand and finally lets it go but you bring it to his cheek.

"You're too good to me, my love," you tell him as he leans into your touch and your stroke his cheek with your thumb.

"No such thing, baby." He turns his head and kisses your palm.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Inked

Still on hiatus. But I found an old piece of writing and I revamped it just a smidge! It was originally published in 2018 on calumh-excess. Which is now deactivated. Hooray for finding pieces!

Calum's been watching Jay for a while. She's cute, talented, but a bit of mystery. Should he really give into her? What will it take for him to admit he has a crush?

Enjoy my masterlist (on hiatus)

______________

He watched her sometimes for far too long. The way her tongue stuck out as she pulled the skin and her hand worked steadily with the needle made it hard for him to resist. Her face always seemed to catch the harsh fluorescent lights and reflect it back so that it twinkled against her skin. A slight sheen, but nothing just of ethereal. He wasn’t even interested in any new ink, not seriously anyway. He had slowed on the ink train, but the shop his tattoo artist owned was a nice place to hang out sometimes. When he wanted to get out of his house but didn’t want to actually go somewhere, he could hang out here, listening to the buzz of the tattoo gun, poke his hand at trying a design here or there. They weren't great. He hadn't considered him this kind of artist, but the shop felt like a second home.

Besides, having her around was a more than welcomed bonus.

He wasn’t even sure what it was about her. She showed up about a year and a half ago, under an apprenticeship. Calum’s artist was unsure of her, much like everyone else that asked to work under him. A hazard of the job, according to the job, according to Calum's artist. However, her drawings spoke volumes; the colors and line work were impeccable. She had talent and knew it without being cocky about it. Well, sometimes she wasn’t. Calum watched her run into the occasional asshole that tried to belittle her; she always put her foot down in those situations. He didn’t fault her.

Today’s no different. When Calum walks in, he greets the guy at the front desk, eyes searching for her. He spots her in the back with her oversized frames creating a small glare over her brown eyes. He never quite got the appeal of the grandma-shaped glasses trend, but on her, they worked. She looked wise but soft. The glass pulled him in, felt like she was seeing into his soul. Maybe she was; maybe the pain made people more vulnerable than they anticipated--entrusting someone, a stranger in some ways, to permanently mark you and not fuck it up. Whatever the reason, looking at her felt timeless. Like she had seen it all, and you are just waiting for you to spill all the secrets.

“You finally going to get some new ink?” Calum’s artist teases.

Calum shakes his head, turning his attention away from her. “You finally took her training wheels off?”

“Your girlfriend’s got mad skills. I couldn’t baby her forever. Jay works hard on each piece, learned fast. Got a steady ass hand and pretty gentle for handling a needle.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, because you haven’t hardly even talked to her. Go for it, you wuss. What’s the worst she says? No?”

Calum exhales a chuckle. "I mean, the worst she stabs me with the tattoo gun. But considering the ink I'm already sporting, I doubt that's really all that bad.”

“Jay would not do that unless you asked for it, ff course. But really, go on, ask her out.”

Calum glances back at Jay. It’s a nickname. No one in the shop calls her by her full name. The only reason Calum heard it was when a client came asking for her. Jay was quick to correct them.

She wipes, clearing excess ink, before dipping back into the small cup. Jay smiles up at her client. Calum's sure they appreciate the reprise. Getting tattoos weren't always fun, but bearable enough to forget about it and get more.

Calum turns his gaze away. “I recommended you to a friend,” he says, hoping that he’ll escape the teasing. It’s not likely to happen. But at least he tries to minimize the ridicule.

"I appreciate it. Are they a first-timer?"

"A second-timer, but they're visiting town and want some new ink. I figured best not to fuck them over."

The two men laugh before Calum's escorted back to look through some new designs. Just in case something sparks his interest. Calum's visit is supposed to be short, but there's not much else on his to-do list for the day. He could kill a few hours here.

When Calum comes out from the back, after spending too much time pretending art was ever a talent of his, he looks for Jay again. She’s not in her corner, nor is she at the front. Calum shrugs, figuring she might have gone for lunch, or home depending.

As Calum walks to his car, he checks his phone. Nothing major's happened.

“Leaving so soon?” A voice states. Calum knows that voice, a little gravelly, mostly sweet. He’s dreamt of it every so often. He prays to hear it when he visits the shop.

He turns to Jay, who leans against the bricks. A vape is wrapped in her fingers. “Gotta get some dinner, maybe make a run to the grocery store," Calum returns. "I've gotten lazy."

She nods. “This reminds me that I can't survive off BLTs forever," she laughs.

"You could try, but I think you'd need other vegetables and some fruit in that mix too."

She pushes up on her glass with a nod. "Ah, yes, gotta get the whole food pyramid." It goes silent between them and Calum gives another nod, raising a few fingers to signal his departure while still keeping his phone in a secure enough grip.

"Hey, wait!" Jay calls out again, taking a half step forward. Calum turns to her. "Can I give you something before you leave?”

Calum nods, not trusting his voice. What would she give him? She nods back to the front door, taking back that initial half-step. “It's inside. Give me like two minutes.”

She disappears inside and Calum stands, his phone still in his hands, staring at the spot she once stood. Just as quickly as she disappeared, Jay reappears. In hand is her portfolio. She flips through before stopping and slides the heavy-duty drawing paper out.

Calum stares down at the green and black drawing. It’s his face, for the most part, that stares back at him. It’s distorted by a crystal ball that glows green. Inside are some instruments and something else, but right now he can’t really put it all together. His eyes keep moving over the lightning bolt, the crystal ball, the uncanniness of his face on a piece of paper, his three-dimensional face somehow translated perfectly into a 2-D space.

“Holy shit, this is amazing,” he breathes. “Thank you,” he says looking back up to her.

She shrugs with a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Seriously, this is so fucking awesome. I’m going to frame it,” he gushes. He’s too excited to be nervous, or be embarrassed. "What are the dimensions?"

“I'm just really glad you don’t find it too creepy. I was watching you a couple weeks ago when you stopped by. It just sort hit me, the image of the crystal ball and lightning bolt; I had to draw it,” Jay elaborates. "And it's 8.5 by 11--standard printer paper size."

Calum shakes his head, staring over the drawing again. It feels so delicate suddenly in his hands. It’s almost like Jay recognizes the change in his handling. She shuffles her load in her hands and pulls out an empty plastic over. “Here,” she laughs handing it over. “So it doesn’t smudge or anything if you're worried."

Calum slides it in. “Thank you. Again. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome, Calum. Good luck with your grocery store trip and dinner,” Jay nods and then heads back inside. Calum watches the way the denim stretches across her hips, the way her hair billows just a little in the breeze of her strut.

For a moment, Calum can't move. The weight of the paper in his hand is hardly ounces, but it holds him--traps him to the point of the sidewalk. Jay thought enough of him to draw him. What did it all mean? Should he have found the courage to ask her out? He could walk back inside. But what if she didn't like him like that? Would it be too weird?

Calum blinks up into the hardly settling sun and thinks to himself, the second he can come back here, it better be with a bit more courage and possibly a gift certificate. No one can be made about free food, right?

It’s months before Calum can visit the shop again. The tour is a whirlwind and he only gets a few days off between legs. Not long enough to get back home or feel like he had any energy to drive out to the shop. But now that he's settled back in at home, he knows exactly where he's going.

It’s not his typical practice to just walk in and ask for a tattoo. But given the ink already on him, worse things could happen. When he pulls open the door, he notices it's kind of slow. Jay greets him at the front desk. “Hey, stranger,” she grins.

“Hey, how are you?” he asks in return.

“Pretty good. How was it? The tour? See any cool places?”

He nods. “Yeah, got to explore a few cities.” He taps his fingers against the wooden desk. “Do you have an appointment anytime soon?”

Jay shakes her head. “My 2 o’clock had to reschedule. I’m here until 4 before I see anyone. Why? What's tickling your fancy?”

“I was wondering if you could do a tat for me? I know this is very last minute and if you need me to come in another day this week, I totally can.” His words run into each other; his palms start to sweat. He wipes them on his jeans.

Jay laughs, holding up a hand. “Whoa, pump the brakes. One, what are you looking for?”

“You know that drawing you did for me?” She nods. “I was kind of hoping you could create something with just the crystal ball and lightning bolt. I know the drawing itself is kind of big.”

A grin lifts her cheeks; Calum’s heart settles for a second. “I think I can do that. Where are you thinking to put it?”

“Inner bicep.” He watches her gaze land on his arm. The t-shirt is baggy, he at least thought about that with enough advance.

“Give me 30 minutes to come up with some sketches.” Jay pushes away from the front desk and heads to the back, but not for calling to the shop to watch the front desk.

Calum slides into the seat at the front, leg bouncing as he settles down. This isn’t even his first tattoo, but the nerves flood his body. His scalp tingles. The thirty minutes move by too fast, but also too slow simultaneously. The seconds feel like hours but move by milliseconds.

Eventually, Jay resurfaces, waving him over to her. He walks back and looks at the sketches she places out in front of him. There are two different ones. One’s a bit more minimalistic, which is her style, with the lightning bolt in the background and a simple crystal ball at the point. The other is a bit bolder, the ball has a slightly warped edge where it connects to the bolt. It looks like the bolt is melting the glass ball.

“I can whip up more if neither one of them are quite right. But I wasn’t sure if it wanted something a bit more crisp and sharp or not,” Jay explains.

Calum admits that most of his tattoos are more cleaned up and sharp. He likes the idea of playing with a new style. “I like the second one,” he says, tapping it.

“You sure?” He nods, he’s never been more sure of something in his life. “Which bicep? Let me line it up and make sure it’ll fit.”

Calum lifts his left arm up for her. Laying the stencil over his skin, Jay notes she has to make a couple small tweaks. But after that, she’ll be ready. They discuss full color, or just outline, or shading, price, and a few other details before Jay concludes with, “Hop in my seat. I’ll be there soon.”

Calum nods and walks over to her station. Her stuff is already laid out, probably for her canceled 2 o’clock. It’s about five more minutes before Jay returns with the final stencil. Calum rolls up the sleeve of his shirt before she places the stencil. Happy with the placement, he stretches out on the table.

Jay gets herself ready before she brings the needle over his skin. The first puncture always makes him jolt a little, the first jab of pain causes his heart to race. “Do you plan on relaxing now that you're back home?"

"Yeah, for a little bit. I might go see my family, but I know we'll be back in the studio soon. Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

"I mean exciting things happen every day at this place. But it's not like I could recall them all now."

Calum hums, acknowledging her statement, but not quite sure what to say next. Luckily, Jay's faster to fill in the silence. "You do realize you didn’t have to get a tattoo to have a real conversation with me?” Jay teases, pushing up her glasses.

Calum’s cheeks heat. “It’s not like that,” he chuckles.

“Well, that’s how it seems.”

“You were always busy when I stopped by. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Not always,” she laughs. “But it’s alright. You’re going to have plenty of time while I’m stabbing you to say all those things you didn’t.”

A chuckle escapes him; of course, Jay would have this sense of humor. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m paying so much for people just to stab me and act as a therapy. Maybe I am a masochist.”

“So are a lot of people. Sometimes you just take the emotional pain out in the physical realm.”

“I always imagined people that worked in a tattoo shop to be more heavily tatted,” Calum hums, taking in scattered ink across her arms and one pokes out from the V in her t-shirt.

“I focused it more on my back and legs and not so much my arms. I’m getting there. So, why this one today?”

Calum goes to shrug, but stops himself as he hears the gun nearing his skin again. “Not really sure. It looked cool. I guess it also serves to remind me that fate isn’t linear. There’s going to be twists and turns, maybe some trouble. And that’s okay. Don’t be afraid of the journey. Also, it's really fucking cool art.”

Jay hums her laugh, “Why thank you. Wise brain you got there. Besides, it seems like you also have people you keep close to you.” She eyes the initials and the name under the bird. “Whoever they are to you, I hope you all stay close.”

“Those are my parents' initials,” he explains. “And my sister’s name. They’ve been with me through it all--I love them dearly.”

“So sweet. I wish my parents and I were closer. I tattooed my brother’s jersey number on me. It was my first tattoo.”

“What did he play?”

“Soccer, or for your kind, football.”

“Hey now, it’s played with the feet, it makes much more sense.”

Jay laughs, wiping off excess ink. She cocks her head to the side a little, then goes back in for the black ink. “I’m only teasing. Us Americans are so dumb sometimes. Like why is our football not called something else? Literally, the only thing that happens with the feet is the running. We carry the fucking ball.”

“I’ve wondered that as well!” he laughs. "Does your brother still play?"

“Yeah, the whole knucklehead still plays for his college.”

“What position?”

Jay laughs. “I'll have you know my job as the older sister is to show up and cheer him on. Something defensive? I don’t remember off the top my head.”

“I’ll give you credit for that. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

“He does until he sees with me in face paint on and then he’s acting like he doesn’t know me. Oh, oh wait, I think remember what he does. It’s defensive,” she pauses, lips pursed together, “something fielder.”

“Defensive midfielder?” he asks.

“Yeah, that. But like I said, I show up when I can and scream. That’s it. When he’s old enough, I’ll buy him a beer after his games too.”

“How old is he?”

“Nineteen, we’re three years apart.”

“The only sibling you have?”

“Nah, got a baby sister too. She’s fifteen. If you’re impressed by my eyeshadow thank her. Because she’s the one that taught me how to do it.”

Calum finds himself staring at the red and gold coloring her eyelids. “It looks really nice,” he breathes.

“Why thank you.” She pauses to bats her eyelashes. “I even managed to get those godforsaken falsies on right too. They look good, but the raise hell.”

“I think you’re the first woman I’ve met in LA that’s not obsessed with makeup,” he notes.

“Oh, you were doing so well. There are a lot of people of who aren’t huge in the makeup scene.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he tries to backtrack. “I’m sorry. In my experience, it’s not like that. They’re hiding the fact they aren’t wearing makeup--embarrassed by it or something.”

Jay nods, pushing up her glasses yet again. “Yeah, it’s not easy. We’re told to be perfect, but in reality, we’re just like everyone. We’re human, imperfect and flaw-full and beautiful.”

“Not in spite of, but because of.”

“Exactly,” she chuckles. Silences settles in around them. Calum wonders why she said she was closer to her family, but the way she talks about her siblings doesn’t match. She’s cheering her brother on at his game; she’s sitting down to learn makeup with and from her sister.

“Can I ask a bit of a personal question?” he asks.

“What kind of personal? Do I get a lifeline?”

Cal exhales a laugh. “You can always say no.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Why say that you’re family isn’t close but you clearly take a lot of pride in your siblings?”

“An observant one on my table, I see. It’s my parents. They don’t like that I’m pansexual, say I’m going to hell. My siblings don’t fucking care. I’m still the crazy-ass sister that loves and supports them.”

With a hum of acknowledgment from Calum, it goes quiet again around them for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He knows it doesn’t really fix anything for her; it doesn’t take away the potential years of her suffering. It’s the only thing he can offer her though. It feels right to say.

“Oh, no need for you to be sorry. It’s not like you threw me out of the house.”

“Ouch. You’re making it though right?”

“Yeah, now that I work here, things are on the up and up.”

“That’s good; I’m glad.”

“Thanks.”

“Favorite tattoo you’ve done?” he asks, wanting to hear her voice again.

“This one,” she laughs. “Though I had someone ask for a pin-up witch, which was also pretty fucking cool to do.”

Calum remembers seeing that on her Instagram. “That one was amazing! Her lips looked so good; I know that’s a strange thing to admit.”

“Don’t worry. I am quite proud of that myself.”

“Do you have a favorite tattoo on you?”

“The blue jay on my shoulder. My parents would take me on walks when I was still an infant. According to the legend, while they were sitting on a park bench a blue jay landed on me. I didn’t cry; it didn’t hurt me. It just landed for a second and then flew off. They called me Blue Jay ever since. I just shortened the nickname as I got older.” She gives one more wipe. “Finished. Check it out.”

Calum sits up, walking over to the mirror. He grins seeing the melting ball sitting against his skin. He grins over to Jay. “It looks amazing. Thank you.”

“No problem.” They head back over to her station. Jay cleans it and wraps the fresh ink. Calum carefully gets his sleeve back down with a little help from Jay. He pays their agreed price with his card, but slides two fifties over to her. “You do know that’s more than double a twenty percent tip right?”

Calum shrugs. “Is it? I’m bad at math,” he grins. “Treat your sister to a new palette or something. Treat yourself to something.”

“Thank you. Now next time, you come by, I hope we don’t talk while I’m stabbing you repeatedly.”

Calum shakes his head, a grin still on his face. Of course. He had forgotten to get the gift certificate. But possibly asking Jay to dinner wouldn't be such a bad idea. “Give me your number and I can promise the next time we talk, it won’t in your chair.”

She holds out her hand, waiting. He hands her his phone, after unlocking it. She puts her number in. She goes to hand the phone back but just before his fingers touch it, she draws it back. "I mean it--actually text me. I adore memes, dogs, TikToks, your favorite songs."

"I'll actually talk to you. I promise."

Jay hands over his phone with a smile. Calum steps outside the glass doors. Why should he wait? He could do it now. For fuck sake, the last hour had been the groundwork for a clear sign a date was absolutely an option. His fingers hovering over her name. He taps it, and then presses for a call. Holding the phone to his ear, he listens to it ring for a second.

“I can still see you, you know?” Jay laughs.

Calum turns around, catching her leaning against the front desk. “I told you the next time we talked you wouldn’t be inking me.”

“What can I help you with, Calum?”

“Dinner, tonight-- I may have ordered too many appetizers for just little old me."

Her laugh trickles in over the speaker. She drops her head, giving it a shake before looking back up to him in the afternoon sun. “I think I can help you with that. Give me the time and place."

Calum rattles off the name of a restaurant that he had been wanting to try. Nothing too upscale, but not something that would be too casual. "How does 8 sound?"

"I love it there. I'll see you at 8."

“Bye, Jay.”

“Bye, Calum.” As he walks to his car, his phone buzzes yet again. This time a text from his artist, I’m being fucking replaced, I see. I can’t be too mad since it’s Jay. Calum laughs as he slides into his car. Maybe he is getting replaced; maybe he’s not. Calum’s not sure. He is sure that he needs to figure out if he can make reservations and what to wear for tonight.

[i-love-side-characters]

Do You See It Differently?

Pairing: Various Relationships

Characters: Various Keeper of the Lost Cities Characters, One-Time OCs

Genre: Angst

Summary:

“Once you’ve seen there is another perspective, you can never not see that there’s another point of view.”

― Ellen Langer

TW: Death, Character Death, Injuries, Blood, Disease Mention

Word Count: 1.8k words (1,817)

Additional Notes:

You should be proud of me, this is all canon!

Or at least based on canon events

Okay you shouldn't have expected so much of me

This is terrible i am so sorry

no beta we die like nixx's happiness when me and pyro are coming up with angst

Tag List: Let me know if you want to be added/removed!

@bronte-deserves-better @councillor-bronte-is-best-boy @cadence-talle @an-absolute-travesty @bookwyrminspiration​ @keefeinnit @mallowmeltz​ @ultralazycreatorfan @everyonehasthoughts @mistythegenderqueermess @imaramennoodle @rainbowtay-11 @we-need-more-empathy @catboyruy @we-wont-dissapear @we-have-no-bananas-today @loverofallthingssmart @a-lonely-tatertot @thesandsofdawn @enbies-and-felonies @fire-sapphics @jadenightthewriter @alabestrine @sunlight-in-a-bottle​ @damischs @pyrokinetic-loser @pyrarayn @towishuponashootingstar

Read below the cut!

you've read the stories.

the ones with the obstacles beyond compare.

the true loves and dramatic battles.

the heroes, valiantly fighting against evil.

they're inspiring tales, to be sure.

but have you read the other stories?

the ones about the villains?

about the families?

about the kings?

about the children caught in war?

those, my dear, are the stories that truly matter.

they are the stories that go untold.

they live and die with them.

and that, is the true tragedy in this tale.

•·················•·················••·················•·················••·················•·················•

"careful!"

her lips twisted into a smirk, dark eyes tracking her daughter sprinting through the city.

"brilla! come back here!"

the little girl laughed, turning smoothly and running back into the arms of her mother. "mommy, did you see how fast i was?"

"yes darling, you were so fast!"

she squealed, wriggling out of her arms, running back into the crowded market.

"ms. sakh?"

she spun around, squinting at the amour-clad guard. the queen seal glowed brightly, it's shimmer enhanced by the golden city. "yes?"

"if you could come with me." his voice stayed even, solid. a queensguard through and through.

she didn't move, twisting to see her daughter playing in the peace fountain. two guards shadowed her, not interrupting, but keeping a trained eye on the little girl. "what's wrong? what happen?"

the queensguard shook his head. "the queen needs to see you, ma'am." he reached out, gently steering her towards the glittering palace.

she glared at him, wrenching her arm away. "tell me what's going on."

his face darkened, eyes filled with sadness. "i'm so sorry to tell you this, ma'am. but at 4:30 today, your wife, brielle sakh, was killed on duty at an elven residence in the lost cities."

the woman's eyes widened, her basket falling to the floor in a dull thud. tears spilled over her cheeks as she stepped back, shaking her head. "no. not brielle―"

"i'm so sorry." he said, reached out again, gently guiding her toward the palace. "let's go."

it seemed darker somehow. the palace. the city. it no longer shimmered bright and gold. the shadows shifted and grew, twisting darker and darker, until they lunged forward and swallowed her whole.

•·················•·················••·················•·················••·················•·················•

he stepped out onto the stone balcony, glaring out over the city.

he could feel every pulse in his body, the tattoos scrawled across his head. they shouldn't carry weight. the elder kings decided that they didn't want the weight of a crown on their heads. that's why the tattoos became what they were.

apparently their plan didn't work.

he could feel the weight of every black swirl, every black scar.

and he could see them too.

he had already visited the hospital. he watched the shamans cover another body. children's limbs mangled, mothers and fathers crying. soldiers standing stiff, black eyes watching every body leave the room and desperately trying to convince themselves that they didn't know who was underneath the white sheet.

and now he was watching hundreds, thousands of black bodies digging at the rubble, each one helping the other rebuild.

"dimitar."

the queen walked over to him, placing a rough hand on his shoulder. "you need to sleep."

"no, i don't." he twisted away from her, feet pounding down the stone steps. the cool wind thrashed his cloak back. mud squelched under his feet, sharp bits of debris cutting into his gray skin.

they bowed as he walked by, some clapping their arms to their chest, but all looking with black, unfathomable eyes. he cut through the crowd, stopping in front of their leader. "romhil― ro."

"father."

he nodded, drawing himself tall. "get back to work."

he bent over, ignoring the ache in his back as he moved the debris. he was with his people now, not with the others. and it was a sight to see. a king, shoulder to shoulder with a peasant.

and only one thought caught the king's mind.

this can't go on.

•·················•·················••·················•·················••·················•·················•

the pages felt heavy. rough.

it was his favourite book. he had memorized it's every detail. the roughness of the cover, worn after years of use. the last few pages, lighter than the others due to a lack of paper. the gold lettering, smudged where his the oils on his skin had touched. and it was the book itself too. the way the words flowed, like music, ensnaring you and pulling you in further.

he smiled and stroked the cover, noting the ink stains from over a thousand years ago. his sister had done that. he'd yelled at her for weeks.

he stood up, nearly tripping over the stack of scrolls tossed on the carpet, wincing as the document's edge tore clean off. he'd have to get it repaired.

dust flew in the air, the delicate rolls dusted in gray. they had been sitting there for ages. maybe it was time to read one again.

he reached down, shaking off the dust and settling back in the armchair, twisting himself until the lumpy chair was perfectly supporting his body.

and then he was thrown into the story again, grabbing him and pulling him in closer, until there was no world, just him and his words.

the sun rose and fell, and rose again, and fell, and time didn't matter anymore because he was safe.

and then he wasn't.

a sharp knock sounded at his door, making him flinch and drop the newest tome. it slammed onto the ground, knocking over empty cups and crushing papers.

"uh― i'm― i'm coming! just uh― give me a minute!" he yelled, hands shaking as he stacked the books as best he could. "coming! i'm―" he gulped, hurrying to the door. "i'm here, i'm― bronte?"

"fallon." the councillor said, trying to smile. "may i come in?"

"no. i mean― it's quite a mess― you probably shouldn't. councillor."

bronte nodded, his jeweled crown glowing dimly in the evening sun.

"what do you want, bronte?" he sighed, desperately trying to comb his hair back.

he sighed, running a hand down his face. "did you know about luzia, fallon?"

"what about luzia?"

"that she's been committing treasonous acts that violate several treaties and―" he hesitated, and then, much more softly. "and could put her in exile?"

his soft, dark eyes met piercing blue ones. even though the councillor was younger, he still cowed the other. he stumbled back, slamming the door closed, turning back inside. his dark eyes scanned over the room, the piles of papers, the overturned mugs, the drawn curtains, the mess, the chaos.

how the mighty have fallen.

•·················•·················••·················•·················••·················•·················•

it was a sharp sound, echoing off the walls. she smirked, throwing another stone towards the ground. and then a deeper echo, the echo of footsteps over the hard stone.

she tilted her head, her dark hair falling over her pale face.

two footsteps. one ridged and firm, the steps of a guard trained from birth to kill. the other was uneven, accompanied by the soft clink of chains.

she shook her head, shoving the sound out her mind.

but it came back.

the footsteps pounded into her brain, her mind analyzing each shift in the pattern, a click of a chain at a different time, a step falling a second too late. a breath too heavy. a rustle of armour.

a low hiss escaped her throat, pale skin breaking as she clawed at her arms. she closed her eyes, but it was still bright, too bright, loud, too loud.

and then the smell. the sweaty, musty odor, mixed with the sharp smell of blood. but something else―something different―

she tilted her head back, lips curving into a lazy smirk. the fragrance wafted inside, the salty smell of the sea, the scent of the wind. outside.

the guard appears first. black eyes, a controlled stare. near seven feet tall. deadly weapons at his side. scars ripple down his face, down his neck, two inches wide and dark against his scaly skin.

he barely paid her any attention, turning around to motion to the others. back was the click of the chains. two more guard appeared in the door, with someone else between them.

someone new.

she watched them carefully chain him to the lumenite wall. they didn't know what they had just done. what they had just started. they just stalked away, leaving just the two of them.

their eyes met. his lips curved into a smirk, nodding at her from his own little cell. it was hard to keep herself from smiling. she had grown old here. lived and died here. seen nobody come in and nobody go out.

it seemed that would change.

•·················•·················••·················•·················••·················•·················•

she gasped for air, bolting up in bed. this wasn't new. another nightmare, more fires, more sugary smells. another night without them here.

small tears trickled down her cheeks, landing on the silky sheets.

it had been a weeks.

she threw off the covers, crawling out of the bed, letting her feet sink into the soft carpet. light streamed into the dark bedroom, moving gracefully with the watery sky. the roads of the city were empty now. everyone was asleep.

"except you." she muttered, glaring at the city.

she couldn't say she hated it here. it was gorgeous, not to mention luxurious, and the people here couldn't be nicer. but it wasn't right.

she hummed under her breath, sliding down to the floor, smiling as a large ball of fur slunk over to sit on her lap.

"hey there marty." she whispered, stroking his fur. "i bet you miss home, don't ya? they don't have temptation treats over here."

he blinked his large, dark eyes at her, meowing softly.

"yeah, it's weird for me too. but we're safe." she said, sending a commanding glare the cat's way. "sophie's got us covered, alright?"

another soft meow pierced the silence.

"mhm. i completely agree. she is definitely in love with that teal-eye guy."

the lights flicked off outside, the sounds of shuffling feet echoing through the room.

she nodded, giving the animal a small kiss. "yeah, it's very interesting. and don't be scared. mom and dad are fine, i promise."

now the lights in the streets were turning off, bathing the city in a blanket of darkness. "they'll be fine."

she climbed back into the bed, pulling the sheets tightly around her. shadows danced over the gray-purple walls, fading into the darkness of the night.

she hadn't made a wish like this since she was 6. her grandma, and something called cancer. all she had known back then was that it killed people. that was 7 years ago. and now she was wishing again.

hopefully this time it would work.

•·················•·················••·················•·················••·················•·················•

so now, what do you think, my dear?

do you still think the king is a monster?

that the recluse does not care?

that the child is safe?

do you see the others in this tale?

do you see it differently?

[liibrii]

Chapter 2 of Stillness || Ch. 1 || yokai hunter!Suna x fem!Kitsune!reader || wc: 3.2k ||

Synopsis: When Suna gets himself into trouble you make a decision that will change your life, be it for better or for worse.

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions of blood and wounds, mentions of death and corpses, characters get beat up, swearing.

a/n: in case you're unfamiliar with yokai here are some basic information. if you want to be tagged in future chapters let me know and as always feedback is greatly appreciated!

You curse. Silently. You curse the dark clouds covering the sky, you curse yourself for oversleeping, but most of all you curse that damn Mr Witch for slipping from under your nose.

After an hour of running around the forest trying to find him you have to begrudgingly admit he's damn good at covering his tracks. Too bad you know the area like the insides of your pocket and once you catch the trail of his scent you know exactly where he's heading. You have to hurry.

You take a shortcut by the hot spring heading to where you know Mr Witch will come up the hill. You're right and just in time for him to turn the corner, out of breath from the long climb and hours of walking through the woods. You attack, but even caught off guard Suna manages to block you; a sling of his arm allows you to catch a glimpse of an exorcising charm scribbled on his palm beginning to glow. A trick so old it needs a cane to walk. One swipe over it and the ink smudges and it becomes useless. That is what you do but the ink doesn't smudge and the last thing you see is blinding white light.

Opening your eyes alone hurts. You blink trying to get rid of the blurriness. Are... are you dead? The hammering in your head is unbearable. You feel like throwing up. Very slowly you manage to pull yourself up, the trees around you spinning. You look yourself over. No visible wounds. You carefully touch your neck. Untouched. It doesn't seem Mr Witch did anything else than knock you out. Terror washes over you. He didn't kill you. Why? Isn't that why he's here? The hammering in your head makes you screw your eyes shut.

You don't know how long it takes you to get back on your feet and pull yourself together enough to start searching for him again. Whatever he did dulled your senses. Unfortunately for him you know exactly where he's heading.

The northern part of the forest is one you stay away from if possible. It's inhabitant is too quick to pick a fight for your liking, and no doubt the one Mr Witch is looking for. You should've noticed sooner. That damn man, he led you astray with his snooping, making you overlook the trap of daily routine and he took full advantage of it. Crashing sounds from the distance let you know you're close.

What moves between trees is a mountain of a creature, tall as the surrounding trees, red skinned and clad in loincloth made of pelts. A pair of horns grow from his head, hair wild and ruffled, swaying with his movements as he fights the one you're looking for.

You're too late and now Mr Witch will have to pay the price.

Unlike Suna the Red Oni takes immediate notice of you. “Young Inari servant!“ he shouts after launching Suna over the small forest clearing.

“I'm staying out of this." With your vision still occasionally going blurry and your knees shaking you couldn't stand up to the red demon even if you wanted to. Better take this opportunity to see the full extent of Mr Witch's abilities. Still bitter over Suna catching you off guard you make yourself comfortable on a rock standing on a safe distance, thinking a good beating is what he had coming anyway.

Mr Witch's eyes linger on you, distracting him enough for Red Oni to almost land a finishing blow. But Suna is fast, nimble on his feet. He keeps dodging Oni's attacks and casting spells before his opponent can recollect himself. But you see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His breathing is fast, shallow, you can almost hear his rapid heartbeat from across the forest clearing. His eyes keep jumping between you and the oni. Is he waiting for you to join in the fight? He's nervous. You grin.

Mr Witch is scared.

Your arrival has distracted him just enough for Red Oni to get the upper hand. Mr Witch fails to dodge a spell then Oni grabs him and starts throwing him around like a rag doll. You smell blood. Suna is thrown against a tree trunk and it takes a worryingly long time for him to get back up. He's trying to catch his breath, tripping over a tree root while dodging Oni's club. Suna doesn't get up anymore. Red Oni raises the club again, all three eyes fixed on the man at his feet-

“Aka-sama. That would be enough.“

Red Oni's club stops in the air. “Do not interfere young Inari servant!“

You jump from the rock to stroll closer to unmoving Suna. “He's barely conscious.“ A large gush on his forehead is bleeding profusely and if the uneven breathing is anything to go by at least one of his ribs must be broken.

Red Oni crouches and brings its enormous face closer to where you're checking on Suna's pulse, all of his three eyes fixed on his unmoving body. “Young flesh.“

“He's not for eating.“

“Not? What else is it good for? Once it's old flesh it's bad flesh.“

“That's a poignant observation and I'll keep it in mind Aka-sama but this one lost already. He won't bother you anymore. I'll make sure of it.“

Red Oni's club crashing into the ground causes a small earthquake. “A human dares appear. In my home! Challenge me! Me, the great Red Oni!“ No other wound hurts as much as the one inflicted on pride.

“Well sadly this human is part of the Inarizaki clan and I'd very much prefer to not get in trouble with them,“ you sourly reply.

“Let them come! Great Red Oni will crush them into dust!“

He could. You are sure most humans wouldn't stand the slightest chance against his power. But he is one. Clan's hunters are many.

You hoist Suna on your shoulders. Fuck, your head hurts so bad. He isn't nearly as heavy as you expected him to be but you still feel unsteady on your feet. Damn beanpole. You turn to leave but a club blocks your path. “Leave the human here young Inari servant.“

“Move.“

The club doesn't budge. Red Oni's eyes flare with fury and his thunderous voice shakes the surrounding trees. “You dare oppose? Me? Me the-“

“The great Red Oni, yes, yes I do.“ Suna weakly moans in pain. Barely noticeable magic prickles around him. Even drenched in blood he's still trying to fight. With a finger to his forehead and a simple spell you knock him out before turning your attention to the furious Red Oni.

You don't have the time for this. You don't have nearly enough strength for this. A debt hangs over your head and you'd like to repay it as soon as possible. Your tails spread like a fan, not a very impressive feat since you only have three, but the flames appearing on and around their ends make up for it. “Do not stay in my way.“

Red Oni stares back. You both know this is not a fight you can win. Not even if Suna wasn't dead weight on your back. He slings the club over his shoulder. “It's a dangerous path you're stepping on young Inari servant.“

“Don't worry, I have a map.“

“A map for this path does not exist.“

On the way towards the town you realise you can't sneak into Suna's house since there's nothing you can do to disguise the bloodied hunter in your arms. He just had to fight Red Oni in the middle of the day, didn't he? At the edge of the forest you consider leaving him there.

You set him down beside a tree. He doesn't respond when you pinch his cheek. The deep wound on his forehead is still oozing blood and it's metallic smell is starting to attract others. Perhaps it would be better if they got him before he causes more trouble. You should leave him. Your debt is repaid already. You owe him nothing anymore.

Were he only a lonesome hunter the decision would be easy. But he isn't. Oh no, he has his clan, he has people waiting for him, he has someone looking out for him. He has someone who will seek retribution should anything happen.

Dead Mr Witch is more trouble than living Mr Witch.

He slides and falls to the ground, his breathing shallow and barely hearable. You notice he's bleeding from a deep gash on his arm too.

With no other choice left you pick Suna up and head towards the temple. He's getting heavier with each step and the staircase leading towards the entrance proves to be a treacherous terrain.

When you finally reach your room, panting and sweat trickling down your forehead, you carefully lay him on your bedroll. Humans, so delicate. Red Oni didn't even hit him that hard. You grab a bucket of water and a cloth to wipe away the blood to check his wounds. The one on his forehead looks worse than it actually is. You fish up some bandages and patch him up to the best of your ability.

Koda and Chochin peek from behind the corner but keep their distance. You aren't sure if the the smell of blood or the hunter is scaring them more.

Suna stays asleep for the rest of the day. You sit beside him, weighing over your options. Right now he doesn't seem much of a threat. Leaving him alive is your best bet even if the uneasy feeling only grows stronger.

Once the night falls you take him back to his home. Just as you lay him on his bed a loud sound makes you jump. It's coming from Suna's pocket and you fish out a rectangle with a glowing screen that reads 'Miya'. Suna stirs and slowly turns his eyes to you. You drop the glowing screen and flee.

That night you walk around the forest bustling with uneasy rattling. Other yokai are worried. They wrongly believed Suna would only do some exorcising and soon leave as all previous hunters did. Instead he went after the most powerful yokai in the area. It seems he'll sooner have more than just you and the Red Oni on his list of enemies.

When you check up on him the following day he seems to be doing better already. He's slowly walking around, having to stop and lean on the wall every few steps. All things considered he could be doing worse. You leave some stolen medicine on his porch.

It's not long before you get a visitor and it's one sure to make your night worse. “Yaku,“ you say without a trace of friendliness and not even bothering to look up from teaching Koda how to form clay into a tiny cup.

“Your human is asking questions,“ purrs the nekomata.

“My human?“

“You saved its life, did you not? It's as good as yours now.“ You never liked the snide look in his eyes, but now especially it's coated with poison and something akin to malice.

Nekomatas never were very fond of you. It was your Grandfather who commanded respect of the other yokai. In their eyes you've always been only a baby fox trailing behind him. And after the Nishikawa incident... well, that was just the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Trust me, if I could left him to die, I would have.“

“You could've easily done that. Truly unfortunate you have always wanted to protect others.“ Yeah. you've always looked out for your own kind. But why should the damn cat care? It wouldn't be the nekomatas dealing with the clan should it come seeking revenge. The one to get their hands dirty has always been you.

“I don't remember any complaints when I saved your ass all those years ago,“ you grumble, vividly remembering how much trouble that old hunter caused. It's always the old senile looking geezers that are the most troublesome.

“I am more than grateful for your help. Which is why I came all the way here to say goodbye.“

You close your eyes and slowly exhale. One by one till nobody else is left. “Not enough corpses around for you to feed on, eh? Where will you go?“

“You robbed us of an especially delicious one. We'll head to one of the big cities. One with a big fish market.“ He licks his whiskers then stretches and turns to leave. “Do take better care of yourself in the future Inari’s servant. Your human got visitors and they do not seem pleased. Farewell.“

Strange emptiness forms in your chest as nekomata leaves. One by one till only you will remain. Koda hugs your trembling fingers.

With the rising moon you leave the temple. It has been days since you checked on Suna and if what Yaku said is true, that others like him have arrived, then it's past time for you to snoop around. This time you take precautions to keep yourself hidden, disguising yourself as a sparrow and watching from far away. You doubt any of the yokai would risk their skin to help you should you stumble into trouble.

Two hunters are visiting Mr Witch, which is two more reasons for you to worry. One has golden hair and a smile that seems anything but sincere, the other is shorter, with dark, spiky hair. The mischievous gleam in his eyes makes you uneasy. Just like Suna they smell like hunters. But they feel different. All are winding rivers appearing calm on the surface, one hides rocks, others hide whirlpools that will pull you in their depths, drown you if you let your guard down.

They don't stay in town long, apparently only stopping by Mr Witch's house because they were passing by during their own mission. There isn't much you learn, except that Mr Witch likes seafood ramen. Only a day passes before they're on their way again though the weight on your mind remains.

The same day they leave Suna visits your temple. You hear him approach wile sitting at the top of the stairs, wondering if you should scrape away the moss. When you were still little, long before your second tail sprouted, long before you learned how to disguise yourself as a human, monks used to keep the stairs moss free. But Koda seems to really like it. Sitting on it he rattles contently.

Suna ascends the stairs slowly, often stopping to catch his breath. He's still pale, his face bruised. He should be resting, not bothering you.

He stops on the step below you. Does he enjoy looking down at you? “You saved my life.“

Not even a 'hello'? How rude. “Worry not, it won’t happen again. You seem to make enemies at every turn Mr Witch. You keep going like this you won't last long.“

“I can take care of myself.“

“Hm.“ Yeah, you’ve seen how he holds his own against yokai. Judging by him avoiding your eyes he’s aware that statement doesn’t carry much weight. “I guess running into the Red Oni was just an unfortunate slip up then. No doubt you’d be able to take him any other day Mr Witch. If you're here to thank me don't bother.“

“Thank you.“ 

Some gratefulness, insulting you to your face. “Why are you here? To pick a fight? You're not much of a threat, you know?“

Suna steps on the next step, throwing you a side glance. “I'm here to pay my respects to Inari. Not everything revolves around you Miss Kitsune.“  

To your annoyance Suna makes it a habit of visiting the temple every other day. He doesn't always speak to you, the previous day he only came around to leave offerings and get startled by Chochin. The possessed lantern laughed almost hysterically and so did you. Seeing Mr Witch jump brought you immense satisfaction.

Chochin has been with you for almost a century now. You recall in detail the day the lantern became conscious. One moment it was just a lantern, the next an eye appeared and the paper split into a wide grin. Your loyal companion. If only it could talk too.

You wake up in the late afternoon and brush your tails with the golden comb that a long time ago belonged to a noble travelling through your forest. Koda sits on your shoulder, enamoured with the sun rays reflecting on its surface. Promise of a quiet night is ruined by all too familiar footsteps.

Annoyed you watch Suna wash his hands by the basin and offer up mochi and a bouquet of flowers he must've picked on the hike through the forest. You've seen flowers just like these growing down where the path leading from the town splits in two. He looks a bit better, though the wound on his forehead is still surrounded by a nasty bruise.

When he approaches Koda slips in your pocket.

“Hello,“ he says, awkwardly, his hands shoved deep inside his pockets.

You don't even spare him a glance. “Do not waste my time Mr Witch. Get to the point.“ Oh how that calm, deadpan face tickles you the wrong way.

He clenches his jaw. “Listen Miss Kitsune, you don't particularly like me and I don't particularly like you either-“

“Rude.“

“- but I think we can learn from each other.“

You stop brushing your tail. Is he joking? “There isn't much for me to learn from someone like you."

“Oh really? So you don't want to know why you failed to stop this little charm?" he waves his palm with the black lines on it. It takes all your restraint to not throw the comb in his face, but his small smirk tells you that isn't something he'll let you forget. "It's a tattoo," he tells you. "There, do you believe I'm being serious now?" He doesn't wait for your answer and pulls out his phone. “Don't you want to learn how to use this? How to get unlimited access to entire human knowledge? Do you even know how to use a rice cooker? I doubt it. And riding trains-“

“Hey I know how to take a train! I do it all the time!“

“And let me guess you get busted for not having the right ticket all the time too? I can teach you how to use the ticket machine.“

“Or I could just make my own ticket.“ To prove your point you change the leaf on the ground into what on the first glance looks like a perfectly ordinary train ticket.

Suna sighs. “No one will be fooled by that. It's a sloppy fake.“

“Hey!“

“My point is, we can help each other out.“ He offers you his hand. “Truce?“

You eye him carefully. Suna isn't someone who fights with weapons that would leave callouses and rough dry patches behind. He uses magic. And magic in the hands of humans is dangerous. Life has taught you that much.

Against better judgement you take the hand he's offering.

tag list: @blurring-stars​ @lsqueezlimel​

[decayandfanfics]

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

As always, let me know what you think!

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Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Out of sight, out of mind (interlude)

I

They disappear one night the same way they appeared.

Without a word.

It feels like waking up after a long dream. The way the sunrays enter your little kitchen, splashing your space in golden light looks almost ethereal, no longer their figures staining your white walls, standing out of place in the middle of your living room.

It feels a lot like the mornings after some heavy rainstorm.

It’s over. You think, breathing heavy and tired.

The apartment is quiet and cold, foreign to you. It reminds you a little they way you feel in hospitals. Places without personality, places without any personal touch. Even when everything is in place; the blankets are neatly folded in the closet and your toothbrush is the only one in the bathroom (Toga surely took her time tiding everything up) but you cannot feel at ease in it.

Maybe you are no longer the same person that use to live alone in this place, because it doesn’t feel like you belong inside the four walls that began to close too tight around you now, and even when you know you should run to the next police station and ask for help and protection because you’ve been hostage in your own home for weeks, you can’t get yourself to do it. It feels like a betrayal, somehow. Even when they held you captive, even when they’ve threat you and berated you. Even when there is no guarantee they would not be back to end the job after what you did to Dabi, after what happen with Shigaraki.

He looked like he wanted to hurt you last time.

Sorrow soft and silent start to rise, your heart breaking slowly with realization, smothering you, drowning you gently as you stand alone in the middle of your home, because they will never be back.

He will never be back.

It’s fine…I’m…safe. I’m safe.

You feel the jarring stab of grief, your heart cracking open under the pressure and the loneliness you’ve been trying to keep under control all this time, so you let out a shaking sob, finally admitting to yourself the ugly truth.

This is more than a little crush.

More like falling in love.

And your sweetheart has red eyes like jewels and a starved need for ruin.

So, you curl in a corner of your couch, hugging a pillow that smells way too much like soap and leather, finally allowing yourself to cry because this is painful, the kind of infatuation that can get you killed, that can destroy your life and ruin you. Him never coming back is a gift made of grief and poison, but you’ll take it because you know this is what you get in exchange of an attachment like this for a man who does nothing but harbor resentment inside the dark pit that is his chest.

You cry your eyes out, you cry desperate and lonely, holding tight to the pillow that still smells like him, no longer trying to suppress the nasty wound his gaze carved into your heart the moment his eyes met yours.

You cry because you think he hates you, because he didn’t just decide to go. Shigaraki choose to run away from this just to spite you and your infatuation because he wanted to stab you back. Because that’s the kind of man he is, that’s the kind of man that you allowed to hold grip onto your heart.

So, you stay curled in the corner of your little couch, sobbing and weeping over the painful mess you’ve made, wishing for the kiss you didn’t get the chance to steal and swearing that if you ever see him again, you’ll squeeze that devious grin out of his sharp face with your bare hands because if he wanted to hurt you by leaving without a word, then he should be fucking proud.

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II

He wasn’t joking when he asked her if she could handle rough.

“Oh my god” she sobs, inked tears staining her cheeks.

She looks like a mess, but he prefers it that way. He favors that she’s different, a complete opposite with her heavy makeup and revealing clothes, her smudged lipstick painting her chin and her breasts bouncing heavy, scaping her torn little dress. A perfect depiction of ruined and lewd. 

She gags when he squeezes her neck hard, his index fingers curled as he yanks her body against the brick wall, too angry to care for his companion. No. He just wants to thrust into her as fast and rough as he can so he can get off the soon.

“Oh my-” she pants trying to hold herself against the wall, but he pulls her neck to him, pressing her back to his chest and then he yanks forward and bites her hard in the shoulder, his teeth leaving a purple mark on her skin.

“Shut up.” He grunts maddened when she sobs and squirms against his body, her smell entering his nostrils, making him gag instantly because he cannot stand the cheap perfume mixed with cigarettes, sweat and sex.

He cannot stand the smell of her hair, nor the shape of her body, or the height difference.

He cannot stand her lewd screaming.

So, he covers her mouth with his hand and shut his eyes tightly closed before resuming his brutal animalistic pacing, trying not to think in the salty flavor of her skin in his mouth. He just needs his release; it’s been a while since he gave himself to this kind of pleasure and for all things he’s ever done, he never fucked this angry before.

Tomura thinks he’s not particularly sexual on a daily basis. He doesn’t go walking around thinking about the next time he gets laid, not when he’s never been that interested in girls anyway, because he just…doesn’t like things nor people. So, his approach on sex is more like a task to be filled if anything else (like eating), rarely relying on another body since he doesn’t want to be touched at all. Now, of course he’s done it now and then, sometimes paying for it, sometimes a nightstand after some vodka in a seedy bar, but always quick to dispatch the person involved.

For Tomura, sex is about him wanting something and obtaining it the easiest way possible to just keep on with his life.

Or at least that’s how it was, but some reason he’s been feeling incredibly starved for it lately, and after being in a heck of a terrible mood and some heated lash out at his crew out of nowhere, he decided to pick his anger and put it somewhere else before killing one of his comrades.

Now, the woman is drooling all over his hand with all the choking, making him feel nauseous so he lets go of her and just digs his fingers on her hip keeping his index up, his long nails clawing at her skin, making her whine, squeezing him tight in reflex.

She tries to catch his wrist to move one of his hands to her breast, but he yanks away to pull her hair, growling a curse against her ear, swallowing hard.

This feels so wrong.

It’s not the right cup size.

It’s not the right smell.

It’s not the right height.

It’s not the right woman.

The mechanic friction is finally working its wonders because Tomura feels his low abdomen tighten before finally getting off.

No, he doesn’t see stars, nor grunts in feverish pleasure. He doesn’t taste her neck nor smiles when he cums. As soon as he releases, he shoves the woman as far away from him, removing the condom with disgust and decaying it (the thought of feeling her bare wet cunt against his naked skin revolving his guts).

He adjusts his clothes before throwing the woman some cash and just walks away, concluding that this was the most unsatisfying fuck in world’s history.

Tomura looks at his hands, feeling the sticky sensation of her saliva and her sweat, troubled because his face it’s super itchy but he feels so disgustingly dirty, that he doesn’t even need to smell them to know that her musky tacky perfume now lingers on his palms.

Maybe if I rub my hands, I can decay it away. He thinks, trying his hypothesis to no avail. ‘kay, that was pointless.

He manages to rub the fabric of his sleeve against his brow until the skin begins to show red dots of blood as he thinks seriously that he could kill for a hot shower, even when he’s not the cleanest guy around (he showers when he can. If he can’t do it, then he just doesn’t think about it), but he can’t stand the way the prostitute’s scent remains on him like a sin, and the thought is so ridiculous, because he’s done plenty of horrible disturbing shit in his life to now feel all guilty and nasty for a “less-than-mediocre” fuck.

So, he walks away, utterly unsatisfied. His anger dragging behind him, leaving a bloodied mess of chaos and longing for something far brighter than a rough fuck behind some lost alley, because he wants more than that. He wants the name, the body and the holy spirit that inhabits the girl with dangerous gaze and healer hands. He wants her violence, her anger and wild bravado, all for him to feaster and be consumed by it.

A violent delight that he can’t afford, not when he’s busy surviving until he finds the doctor or his master’s weapon, so he repeats himself that his infatuation, this sickness will disappear eventually, he just needs to get his priorities straight and focus.

He’ll do it, time will get everything in place again.

Cold creeps into him, the city lights filling the streets between car noises and people returning their homes. All of them busy minding their own lives, completely unaware of the hooded serial killer walking by, quietly sneaking into the fire escape of some old building.  

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III

Internal medicine is one of those courses that drains every bit of life out of you. Arguably the hardest in a career full of hards, you now live under the constant threat of failure because this shit is a monster, and you know the statistics too well to not being aware that this course has the highest rate of reps in all the damn faculty.

So, you enter your uni mode; sugar-rush based diet and coffee like the world is ending to keep your brain functioning like is a nuclear reactor, sleeping four hours at nights and barely dreaming. Of course, it’s not just that class, is that you have three more besides that one, all of them of high difficulty for you to rejoice in your misery, so yeah. You live like a zombie.

I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich… You repeat to yourself every morning after showering, watching your body in front of the mirror, admiring the sharp angles and purple eyebags that already began to claim your face.

Oh, and the hair loss due to stress is just the cherry on top of the cake, really.

Yes, your brain is at the brim of collapse right now, but classes start again, and your friends are there to suffer with you and it makes you feel accompanied and secure. Is just another semester of tears, panic, pizza and everything that implies to be a twenty something student, so you are thankful nonetheless, because you don’t have the time to think about the other thing…

You don’t think about it.

You don’t really think about it.

You don’t even think about it.

And you don’t say the name either, you refuse because you’ll do anything to forget about him, anything to erase the memory of his dark figure like a shadow against your white kitchen, too clever and insolent for your own good.

But it’s okay, you don’t think of him, or his slender fingers taking the bishop to strike down your king, and the way his dry lips curve upward before some smartass remark. You don’t think of his lean body towering over you, touching yours in so many places but none at the same time.

No, you don’t think of him while awake, but sometimes he visits your dreams to terrify you with his cadaveric hands and his face hidden by his hair. Ready to strike you down, a hand extended in motion to decay you into oblivion.

Sometimes he hovers over you, kissing your neck while ravaging you, incredibly close and raw and intimate, his mouth snarling dirty words you’ll never dare to say out loud. Dreams where his warm chest press against your naked body and your lips sings lewd lullabies just for him, welcome him to feaster on your skin with your face nuzzling against his scarred cheek, covering your face with his silver hair.

Sometimes he just sits in your kitchen as the sunlight reflects over his milky locks. His hand holding his cheek over the table in serene expression, calling your name to play again as the black king spins between his delicate fingers.

___________________

IV

Tomura has a meeting with this new allied Twice found, like three days from now.

He’s not particularly excited about it, surely, it’s just another capo wannabe with grandeur delusions, but it could be worth it. Maybe he could get some money out of it since the league is completely broken after his sensei’s incarceration. They are in desperate need of a hideout, now more than ever since Kurogiri vanished and he’s sure the heroes must have captured him. (Thinking about this is pointless anyway because he doesn’t have the means to get him back)

Minding his own business, he walks with his hoodie on, passing between civilians like he’s one of them, completely invisible when he sees her.

It catches him by surprise. His heart stopping dead on its tracks, wide eyes and tight lips, uncertainty filling him all of the sudden, but he’s accustomed to make hiding spots out of nowhere, so he gets behind some store sign where he can watch her safely.

She stands outside a coffee shop, animatedly talking with some guy who wears the same clinic uniform that she has on. A school mate maybe? She’s an intern in a hospital so, they are probably on shift. Another doctor like her.

She looks tired and paler, but beautiful, nonetheless. The way her lips move give away she’s talking about something clinic, because her face has that firm expression she always does when she’s being professional.

She already looks like a doctor and God knows he’d gladly be sick every day of his life if she’s the one to treat him.

His feelings betray him. He was sure after a month she would be completely out of his system by now, this stupid illness already cured, but shit just doesn’t go away.  It pisses him off to no end because she’s not worth the aggravation. C’mon, she’s just another boring normal civilian, she doesn’t do anything important or interesting. She’s not remarkable in any way that serves him, because not even her quirk is truly useful. Not when it threatens to kill her every time she uses it.

And looking her objectively, she’s not even that pretty, but somehow, he’s torn between his desire to make her see him and get as far away from her he can.

Searing jealousy pierces him, hate raw and jarring dripping from between his ribs when the man leans over and whisper something that makes her laugh and for a moment, he seriously thinks he’s going to kill him right there, no quirk needed because he would just love to gut him out in plain view for her to see what he thinks of her stupid friend.

He hates the man, but he hates her more because she dares to laugh, she dares to enjoy life and people meanwhile he crawls hungry and cold between ruined places.

Like sensing his glare, she suddenly turns her head with her eyes directed to the spot where he hides, her expression changing from joyful to confused in seconds, making him laugh because even when he’s sure she cannot see him, she knows he’s there and it feels like she’s tied to him somehow.

Her face gives away disappoint when she fails to catch him and the thought of her grieving after he left delights him, but he’s sworn to let her behind, so he rejoices for a moment in this little victory of his pettiness over her charms, before turning away from her, fully believing that this is the last time he thinks of her.

Chapter 13

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Hey lovely readers! since English is not my native language and writing Shigaraki is kinda hard because he changes and grows, and because he usually says many things about himself, but then he goes and do completely different things (like when he says he hates everything, but CLEARLY he’s fond of twice and stuff like that) so much in manga, it would be lovely to know what you think of this! I think it’s the only way to be better at something really, So, any questions, comments and concerns, please feel free to comment!

[darkpoisonouslove]

The Road of Words

Summary: Griffin is visiting Valtor at the hospital after he got injured pulling a stunt to impress her. He has to wake up to see the results of his efforts and Griffin swears to put in an effort of her own to reach back to him.

CW: mentions of coma, head injury, blood, self-harm (very minor but it counts), self-deprecation

@trashcankitty12​ requested the following prompt - You’re in a coma and I confess all my feelings only for you to wake up - and I did my best to deliver. Not a scenario I usually dig but I tried to give it a spark of originality.

Songs I listened to while writing this and I feel like really fit the tone of the fic are Promise by Fytch and Tether Me By Galleaux. Give them a listen if you feel like it!

Griffin's fingers clutched the smooth pot desperately. It was heavy and slipping in her sweaty palm. There was no heat left in her body for the cold clay to absorb. The dread had numbed her to anything but the occupied hospital bed she was looking for.

She'd gotten directions at the reception after giving her name. She had to be on some kind of list with allowed visitors when she had no business being there. Just like Valtor.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat only the frozen blue of his eyes could wash away as she reached for the handle on a pristine door. Behind it was Valtor, lying motionless like she'd never been prepared to see him. For all of her resistance to his flirting, she'd always figured the first time she caught a glimpse of him in a bed would be with herself underneath him and pinned to the mattress by his rippling muscles and disarming smile.

A notification from Instagram had found her in the middle of the night curled up with a novel. Valtor had tagged her in a photo of a rare flower he'd taken hours earlier at sunset. The captured moment had found her despite the tricky signal on his mountain climbing hike and she'd drifted off to sleep with a smile still on her face and a warmth in her heart.

Her tea had been steaming in her half-empty mug the next morning when the twins had called her with the headline that Valtor had been found with a head trauma and taken to the hospital.

Coma.

She'd thrown every window of her apartment open but all the chilly morning air had done had been to shake her to her core. Her lungs had heaved with dry sobs as she'd looked down from the 40th floor, hands clutching at the windowsill. He would've climbed up the side of the building if she'd asked it of him. All she had done had been letting them both down time and time again.

Griffin pushed the door open slowly. Her heart pounded in her ears to compensate for the stillness on the other side of the door and and her finger trembled over the cactus in the pot. Prickling it would spill red to drown out the unblemished peacefulness of the hospital room in case it was too unbearable.

Valtor's parents were sitting on a couch opposite from the door amidst too much chaos in place of the rigidness she'd expected. Elinor's long black hair spilled over Ailan's suit jacket and his shoulder where she'd rested her head as if it were too heavy. Her usual stoicism had melted off of her lean form. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she'd missed to wipe away a smudge of her mascara. Ailan's hand was gentle on the crown of her head but his knuckles had turned white gripping at his own knee. His leg twitched in failed restraint to keep it from bouncing and his lips moved senselessly in his wife's hair. He was pulled taut like a bandage stretched to tearing over a wound that was too big. Nothing in their stance spoke of both their remarkable height or the power their name carried.

"Griffin," Elinor rose up from her husband's chest. He offered her his handkerchief at the sound of her nasal voice.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude," Griffin was stuck to the floor, her legs made of lead. It would be like stepping on their graves to go any closer to them. Her hard-to-get routine had left their son limp in that bed.

"It's okay, dear," Ailan rubbed Elinor's back while she was blowing her nose quietly. "I'm sure he'd want you here. Maybe he'll feel your presence. He's always been attuned to it."

Griffin swallowed. Valtor had put his whole heart into getting to know her. He'd found a way into hers through the suffocation she'd subjected it to to avoid a crack in her walls. And now the only sound coming from him was that of his shallow breaths.

"We'll be outside on a short walk." Ailan helped Elinor up and they leaned on each other. Their steps were slow but steady as they passed by her and Elinor squeezed her shoulder instead of holding on to her husband.

Griffin had to push her finger on the cactus in her hands for the pain to ground her. The moment the door closed behind Valtor's parents, her knees gave out and she slumped in the chair at the side of the bed. Their company had been a punishment but one well deserved.

The quiet hit her harder now that she had proof she was the cause of it. She'd always been but Valtor had been filling it–and her lungs–with his sweet talk. She'd come to talk but her throat was parched like she'd choked on the sun.

All the ashes of the moments she'd let burn out were flickering over her skin to brand it with echoes of the words she'd never said. Her breath had stopped the first time she'd laid eyes on Valtor's shapely physique and his confident stance, on his strong jaw and striking eyes as he'd introduced himself as a benefactor to the school where she'd grown up and was working. She'd smiled to herself watching him do an art course for her students through a window after she'd refused to be the head of the project and his supervisor. She'd discussed books with him till the middle of the night and had never said a word about his pick-up lines. She'd accepted his invitations to a matinee raising awareness about endangered species in the local botanical gardens and a charity fundraiser for victims of abuse but had never replied to his date suggestions. So many things he'd said to her and she'd kept her silence, and her distance.

Her grip tightened on the pot with the cactus. She'd smeared her blood on the side like some sort of magical ritual to bind her life force to that of the cactus, and of Valtor. She'd picked a succulent that survived with the same tenacity he'd shown and bloomed in the color of her hair. She hadn't managed to kill that one even when she'd stopped tending to her plants for months on end alongside abandoning Faragonda and Valtor appreciated her and her efforts. He had to wake up and give the cactus the same devotion he'd put in the photograph that had won her over.

"In the eye of the sun," the caption had read under the glowing halo of light the sunset had become around the flower's crown of purple-bluish petals.

Griffin left the cactus on the nightstand before she'd broken the pot. She dropped off her purse next to it and wiped her palms in her charcoal skirt mindful of the blood oozing from the pinprick on her finger. She didn't take Valtor's hand into hers. She'd left her fingerprints on him.

"I came here for myself as much as I did it for you. Because it turns out you've become a part of my life no matter how much I was trying to avoid just that." She'd grasped it in the artfulness of the photograph – he was the sun and she was the flower as much as the opposite was true as well. Her eyes were the golden ones but his gaze was the only thing that would brighten her day. If he'd give it to her. If she hadn't made it to the end of the universe where sunlight didn't reach.

"I was scared to know where the road stopped for us. I didn't want to face an inevitability. But I figured I'm more afraid of not knowing just how far we can go." The sun would rise one day on a dead flower but if Griffin let herself, she could have with Valtor what his parents did. She could have a lifetime full of love – in the eye of the sun instead of the storm. "I was scared of being just a speck of ink on your life but I will be. I will be anything you want me to be."

Her finger wasn't bleeding anymore but her heart hadn't stopped. It was pumping blood in her veins frantically to keep her moving and breathing long enough to be anything to him. Being just a short footnote to his life explaining his condition would be enough for her as long as he survived it.

"What do I have to do to show you how much you mean to me if you're still not convinced?" The silence shattered from the power of Valtor's voice and air cut into her lungs.

Tears spilled from her eyes like liquid sunlight. "Valtor."

()()()()

Her heart was hammering under her palm like it was trying to knock her down where she was leaning on the wall next to Valtor's door. It'd been a long while since she'd ran out to get the doctor and then Valtor's parents. They were inside now along with her purse and her tears had dried on her cheeks but her heart wouldn't settle. It wanted to shoot out of her chest and land only in Valtor's hands after she'd dashed out the door without another word. She hadn't had any this time. Otherwise, they would've spilled out along with her tears.

The door opened and Elinor stepped outside. Her blue eyes had lit up with the light of a whole sky full of stars and the corners of her mouth couldn't contain her smile. She was steady on her heels in her own right again. Her husband was a reflection of her lightness once again rather than a crutch to support her weight.

"Thank you, Griffin," Elinor drew her into a hug that turned her stomach. "You were there five minutes and he woke up."

Griffin's hands weighed like anvils on Elinor's back and would break her spine with the words pushing on Griffin's tongue. "No, it's all my fault he ended up here in the first place," she could hear herself speaking from afar through the confusion dizzying her mind that would have sent her tumbling down if not for Elinor's embrace. If she'd been more honest with Valtor–and with herself–she never would've pushed them down that road. She'd made him feel like he needed to prove something just because she was woven from distrust in the dark. "I'm sorry."

Elinor pulled back, eyes locked with Griffin and hands on her shoulders. "You don't have to apologize to me. Valtor makes his own decisions and I wouldn't stop him. You've been unfair to yourself in your refusal to believe he was seeing your worth."

Griffin grabbed on to Elinor's arms as the world spun around her on its head. Valtor had gone to such lengths for her, to show her her own worth, not to prove his feelings. He'd risked his life for a single photograph when she hadn't believed his words. And she'd received the message – loud and clear.

"Thank you," Griffin squeezed Elinor's hands whose touch was gentle despite the strength in her arms – just like Griffin's own mother's had been. She was lucky to have found someone with the same striking wisdom to advise her in the wake of her parents' deaths.

"Go to him," Elinor brushed a strand of purple hair from where it'd stuck to the salty tracks on Griffin's cheek. "He's been asking for you." With a nod of encouragement Elinor released her.

Griffin pushed the door open to draw the attention of both men inside. Ailan nodded at her and patted Valtor on the shoulder before making his way out quickly and closing the door.

Griffin and Valtor stared at each other wordlessly. She took in the way every inch of him moved with vitality. His lungs drew in full breaths and her smile got a wide grin in return. How had she ever doubted the shine in his eyes? He was glowing like the sight of her infused him with pure light.

"Thanks for the cactus," Valtor reached over to pull it to the edge of the nightstand, fingers brushing the leather of her purse still lying abandoned there. "Now I'll have company in my prickliness."

Griffin chuckled despite herself and shook her head. "That's not why I brought it. I was hoping it would lend you some of its resilience." The confession came out whole instead of shredded in pieces like she'd feared. "It has survived through many years with me."

"There was no way I wouldn't pull through with you here but why did you come? Was it just fear that drove you here, saying the things of my dreams?"

Her heart jumped in her throat and she had to swallow it to speak, not to keep him from seeing it. She sat down in the chair by the bedside again. It was quickly becoming a monument of their relationship's development.

"I don't know how much you heard of what I said before but I was scared. I was scared I would never get to tell you the photo got through to me because I'd been so scared to act, to feel. I hardly made it through the loss of my parents," Griffin choked back the memories spilling into her eyes. "It was so hard for me to believe in my own future when I'd been pulled from my roots. I've been living on willpower and instinct but I'm ready to feel again, to love again. With you."

Valtor offered her a hand and she took it. He brought it to his mouth for a kiss, the breath from his lips scorching her nerves with the pleasant shiver it sent over her skin. They'd held hands as they'd danced but they'd never made it closer to each other than an inch apart.

"I heard you say you'd be anything I want." Valtor's sly smile had her resisting the urge to roll her eyes. He had something positively scandalous on his mind. "I want you to be my wife."

"Valtor!" Heat rose inside her – overwhelmingly invigorating in the subtlety of the romantic history between them. "Ask me on a date first." She'd say yes this time. She'd say yes any time.

"Take your time. I'll ask you on a thousand dates. We have a whole future in front of us," Valtor laced their fingers together.

[jaskierswolf]

Prompt idea: Okay so you know how Jaskier is always sticking his tongue out compulsively because Joey Batey wants to murder us? Geralt is absolutely fixated on it, obsessed with his mouth.

Ok so babe... I’m looking at this ask and it looks spicy? I’m looking at what I wrote and it’s just.... soft? I don’t know what happened? I think Geralt caught feelings?

Geraskier, 976 words

CW: None!

______________

Geralt had intended to sharpen his swords. He’d come back to their room after a fairly easy hunt to find Jaskier mid-composition. He’d rolled his eyes and got to work on his swords. There was no interrupting Jaskier when he got like this. Eventually Geralt would have to drag his arse downstairs for some food but it would be alright for a while. Geralt could use the quiet time, a rare occurrence with Jaskier by his side, but after the hunt his senses were too heightened, too sensitive. Every beat of Jaskier’s heart sounded like a giant’s footsteps.

It had been so loud that he’d been able to pick out the bard’s heartbeat from outside the inn; a familiar flutter, the soundtrack to his life for the past decade. A warm and comforting sound. Geralt’s strikes along his blade kept to the rhythm of Jaskier’s heart. He wondered if the bard even realised. He probably didn’t, too lost in whatever rhymes and words he was trying to scribble on the page. Geralt shook his head with a fond smile as he looked up at the bard.

And that had been his undoing.

Jaskier kept muttering under his breath, hands tugging at his hair as he counted beats, on his fingers, but when he fell silent his tongue flicked out between his lips, licking slowly without Jaskier even realising it.

Geralt swallowed.

Jaskier just hummed and tapped the quill against his cheek before biting down gently on his fingers. Geralt couldn’t look away. He stared, unable to move. His own heartbeat suddenly raced as fast as a human’s as his gaze traced the slow movement of Jaskier’s tongue along his top lip. It wasn’t meant to be seductive. Jaskier was merely concentrating, a subconscious habit that the bard probably didn’t even realise he had, but Geralt was stunned, his carefully constructed walls beginning to crack. He knew, objectively that Jaskier was attractive but he’d never noticed his attraction to his best friend before.

It was a beauty that had just annoyed and inconvenienced him when he was forced to save the bard from angered spouses, although now he really thought about it, that bitter resentment for having to constantly save Jaskier could easily have been the beginnings of Jealousy.

He must have made a sound as Jaskier’s eyes refocussed as he blinked and looked up from the paper.

“Ah, Geralt, you’re back!” he cried happily, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, smudging dark inks stains across his cheek without realising.

Geralt was suddenly hit with the urge to run his thumb along Jaskier’s cheek and wipe the stain away.  

Fuck.

Jaskier’s smile was lighting up the room, brighter than any sun, his lips still damp and shining from where his tongue had touched. Geralt heart fluttered in his chest, running faster than any witcher’s heart should. There was a prickle of heat at the back of his neck and he couldn’t look away from his friend.

Jaskier’s smile morphed into confused look at Geralt’s unusual demeanour, and then his eyes widened slightly before a coy smile appeared. Each expression was beautiful in its own way, each one so very Jaskier.

Gods he was utterly fucked.

It was like the dam had broken and everything he’d been hiding, even from himself, was flooding out.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked in a low voice, tongue tracing his bottom lip as he stepped closer. Too close and yet unbearable far away. The air had been sucked from the room and Geralt couldn’t breathe. It was more torturous than any curse.

“Hmm,” he responded, not trusting his own voice.

Jaskier reached up to cup his cheek and Geralt’s skin felt like it was burning under Jaskier’s touch. He leaned into the heat and closed his eyes, a contented purr rumbling in his chest. Jaskier laughed, a laugh that rivalled the most beautiful of melodies. “Darling, forgive me if I’m reading this wrong, but can I kiss you?”

Geralt swallowed and his eyes fluttered open, needing to see Jaskier, needing to see the gorgeous blue eyes that he knew were looking at him through thick eyelashes. He smiled faintly, unable to resist the adoration in Jaskier’s gaze. “Yes,” he breathed as quietly as possible, barely a whisper, not wanting to break whatever this magic was that was sparking between them.

Jaskier’s expression softened and Geralt knew he was in love with his best friend. Nothing else would explain the way he felt like melting into Jaskier’s embrace and never leaving. Jaskier’s other hand came up to hold Geralt’s other cheek, filling him with a warm glow that he’d never felt before. He was a goner before their lips even met, but that first touch felt like lightning scorching through his soul. He knew it that moment he would love Jaskier for the rest of his life whether he was killed tomorrow or lived long enough to retire to the keep in the mountains.

He gripped at Jaskier’s hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of the bard’s shirt. The kiss was over all too soon but they didn’t part, Jaskier pressing his forehead against Geralt’s as they breathed together. Jaskier’s heart was racing, the sound the most beautiful that Geralt had ever heard.

“I love you, Jask,” he murmured, his words surprising him. He was sure that out of the two of them Jaskier would be the first to admit he was in love but they had fallen from Geralt’s lips like a prayer.

Jaskier laughed breathlessly “Tell me I’m not dreaming, darling, tell me this is real… fuck, Gods Geralt, I love you too, more than anything.”

Geralt captured Jaskier’s lips in another kiss to answer him. He couldn’t promise the bard that it was real but it truly did feel like a dream, but one they were hopefully living through together. _______

Tag list: @slythnerd @marvagon @elliestormfound @dani-dandelino @panerato @moonysourenza @artistsfuneral @hailhailsatan @wherethewordsare @havenoffandoms @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @geralt-of-riviass @frances-the-red @kittynannygaming @stinastar @scribblesonmapleleaves @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @kueble @justjess94 @kozkaboi @llamasdumpsterfire @actionnerdgamerlove @honeysuckletook @dapandapod @damatris @mayastormborn @jaskierslastbraincell @dazedandinked @jaskierstark

[the-last-cuddlebender]

When Aang Was

When Aang was hurting, he became a walking wound. His reflection turned into a stranger. His smiles got a bit bigger—his magician’s one-liner to hide his slight-of-hand—, but he couldn’t keep himself above water forever. Even he sometimes forgot that he lost everything and everyone, and forgetting turned remembering into daggers through each of his lungs. It stole his air—his element, his last connection to them. 

...the Gaang have a few things to say about that.

And Aang’s family would be damned if they let him bleed alone.

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

A/N: The Gaang will walk backwards into hell if it means they can give Aang a hug when he needs one. This was HIGHLY inspired by this beautiful photoset by @imreallyhereforkataang💕 because Yin and Yang make me soft for the airbean I stg. (also special thanks to @demigodseameg16‘s fic request for putting orphan!Aang on my mind!) (also, also, this is my first time writing Mai so ya-hoooo) 

Rating: T 

Words: 5,074

ArchiveOfOurOwn (AO3)

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

When Aang was happy, he talked really fast. His master’s tattoos lost meaning. He tripped over his own feet—graceless but playful—and laughed like giggles were more vital than breathing.

He was an airborne contagion that no one could escape. His family were patient zero, and, almost four years after the war, his quest for world domination was nearly complete. Peace was proven with the smiles he nurtured in others, and his empire of friends and friendly acquaintances circled the globe a dozen times over.

Their symptoms of Aang were chronic—their cheeks always hurt, their middles never stopped aching, he hid their breath behind hurdles of giggles and slap-fights about the absurd...

The list went on and on, just like the peel of his laugh and the warm feeling he left in his wake.

If only the world could see him when he curled up like a cat in its favorite sunny spot every time he lounged across the fuddy-duddy Firelord’s lap. If only the world could see him when Suki caught him using her good makeup—the expensive kind she saved for formal occasions—and the monstrosities he made of his and Sokka’s faces. If only the world could see him when he sent messages to Sokka saying they were from Toph demanding a rematch of whatever they were practicing lately.

Mai didn’t exactly help. She graded his antics with a rubric and gave him feedback, to boot. She refined his nonsense like a blade on a grindstone for greater impact and outcome every time.

The world definitely saw him when he and his lifeline went out in public. He guided Katara down an invisible red carpet every time, and he announced his befuddled Moon’s presence without having to say a single word. He adored getting her flustered—his Mighty Katara—and seeing the beautiful color she turned into. He especially loved the sharp smacks she swatted his shoulder with. He adored her puffed cheeks and her face’s valiant attempts to scowl at him. She hid in his arms from something that wasn’t embarrassment, and Aang kissed her hair at another mission accomplished.

But even if they were ever ‘cured’ of him, his family knew they would never be rid of him. Aang was a master of his craft. His hugs were blue ink, his understanding was his steady hand, and his shoulder to lean or to cry on was a thousand fine needles. His tattoos were unseen but brighter than the sunset’s reflection when the Ocean was in a good mood.

To the world, he was a cure, but, to his family, he was a vice. Neither his better half nor his siblings could shake his grip on them, no matter how hard they rolled their eyes and shooed him away. He saw their pursed lips and grumpy looks as something they wore and that he could take off of them. He found the cracks in their armor like he was a thief turning lock tumblers, and he dug his hands into where they hid their joy.

He was a purple pentapus in airbender robes clinging to their arms, their legs, and their backs. He was their goofy little brother and their grinning parasite, and they wouldn’t have him any other way.

They loved his smile, despite how badly it crippled them. His joy was so second nature that his good feelings became as essential as Mother Nature. The flowers weren’t pretty if Aang wasn’t smiling. He was their greatest weakness—the biggest, happiest, dorkiest chink in their armor.

May the Spirits help the next person who tried to kill him.

Katara would not be held back a second time.

Toph would find someone who needed some punishment if she was left out of ‘the fun’ again.

(Sokka tracked the bastard down, and Suki caught him without—just barely without—snuffing him out)

(Zuko held Aang’s head in his lap while Katara patched up what was broken and tugged his bleeding spirit back into him)

(None of them knew what to do when his fever hit critical. He started talking to people—children, mentors...family—who had been dead for over a century. The six of them were worse than lost when their seventh begged for his old family to talk back to him. He was sorry. He was so, so sorry. He missed them so much—please, he missed them and he missed home so much—)

(When Aang was conscious two days later, Mai sat him down and taught him all that he didn’t want to know but all that he needed to learn about poisons)

...

Four years of healing were four years of silly smiles and cozy camp-outs in the Palace courtyard. Four years of new family were four years of new brothers and sisters discovering, together, what family really meant.

Four years of new family were four Fall seasons where and when nothing (seemingly) happened. Four years and four seasons of dead and dying things came and went like they were never there.

Four Fall seasons became four bundles of dead branches burned between Summer and Winter. A pile of ashes became a memory barely remembered and a nightmare never forgotten.

Four years and four fires were four times he slipped away, unseen, from the anniversary of the war that they ended. Four times he slipped away were four times left by himself with a feeling that was worse than alone.

Four temples and four Fall seasons were nothing more than marks on a map and a calendar.

In the room that Aang used to call his in the home that he used to call theirs was where he kept all of the ‘counts’. At first, he marked the things they missed, just tallies and names on the wall.

Four years and four Fall seasons meant four-thousand names and smudged scribbles of forgotten faces and places they might have thought were pretty. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking and what was left of his heart wouldn’t stop breaking as he carved chalky tattoos, like unhealed scars, into the wall—the one with the window overlooking the places where he struggled to remember playing before.

He didn’t know he was forgetting them until he started having trouble remembering them. The tallies were lives lost, the dashes were shadows without faces, and the names of his family—the names of his old family…—decorated the head of the bed that he used to call his. 

He left them notes like they could read them and asked them questions like they might respond.

Four years and four Fall seasons meant nothing to him. He lost everything and everyone in the blink of an eye.

Aang tried not to stay at the temple, especially if he was alone. Thinking alone was dangerous. His thoughts were wild and threatened to burn him.

He made the mistake, once, of walking past the hidden hall that he and his friends—his old family...—used when they sewed chaos into the weave of their home. The hall was stuffed with fond memories but so poorly constructed—so narrow—that it only allowed enough room for a one-way direction to and from the outside.

It was a charred hole with a sooty-black throat that greedily swallowed his shadow. The blackened stone was melted—glassy—and smelled like the instinct to run.

It wasn’t until Aang got back to his family—his new family…—that he imagined his newest nightmare.

It wasn’t his new family’s fault. They weren’t the ones on the festival ride just to his left and screaming into his ear.

Aang’s empty stomach turned inside-out, and he dry-heaved so hard that he couldn’t breathe. It was a strange feeling, struggling for air, having his element all around him but kept just out of his reach.

Those few seconds of breathlessness turned the ground black and the sky into dirt, but someone caught him before his knees buckled. Someone else was patting him from head to toe with tender touches that left no part of him unturned.

His family were worried sick—sicker than he felt. They asked him in a million different ways and in a million concerned voices if he was okay.

Aang struggled to smile for them. It took him four or so tries to get it right. He couldn’t do anything about his shaking, though.

“Can...Can we go home, now?” He whispered his trembling words like they were secrets never meant to be said aloud. He looked at them like a wounded animal limping back to its master—a stray tucking its tail but crawling closer, desperate, with a broken smile peace-offering and a fit of flinches at any sharp sound. The beating was inevitable, but he pleaded for the chance to feel something soft before he was kicked again. He leaned into Katara’s hand, and he flinched and pressed harder when she was warm and real and didn’t move away from him.

He was their goofy little brother and their grinning parasite.

Aang fought his struggle to smile for them, and he trusted his big brother to carry the whole of his weight. Zuko was warm and familiar, and his gentle squeeze was a promise to not let go; Katara’s worried touches and soft kisses were safe, and she swarmed around Aang like a mobile shield.

Aang sensed their tensing. They were his family, after all. He always had two fingers on their happiness’ pulse.

Their questions were a distressed tidal wave.

He didn’t stop smiling even when he closed his eyes.

He couldn’t tell if the hushed voices he heard were from his new family in front of him or from his old family behind him. Aang remembered...

Aang rearranged his lips into what he remembered a smile felt like.

“Please? C’n we...Can we g-go home?” He opened one eye and found both of Katara’s waiting for him. She was horrified and concerned to tears, and she wasn’t the only one.

Aang almost sighed. His strength was bleeding out of him along with everything else. He struggled to keep smiling for her, and he struggled even harder to keep his eyes open. He flinched from the kicks that were their heartbroken looks, but he tried to give them a reason to smile. 

Zuko was really warm, though. And Katara’s hands felt really nice on Aang’s face.

The flame of his consciousness flickered—a candle left out in the rain.

“Please, K’tara?” He spoke without meaning to. It was an impulse, an instinct. It was the orphan and the last airbender crawling through the carnage and finally having a spot on the stage to speak.

Cold sweat beaded his brow, and frozen shivers shook his insides. He just wanted to go home, wherever or whenever that was. Everything was too blurry. He couldn’t remember anymore. 

Even his new family’s faces were blurry, now, and Aang’s element was torn out of him when his first choke on everything and everyone he lost freed the Oceans behind his eyes.

He just wanted to go home...

“...Please?”

Aang’s voice was the last of him to break, and his family all flinched like they could feel it. His shattered pieces fell all at once and shredded everything he knew and loved.

He curled his fingers into Zuko’s robe to keep himself above water. He shook like something dead about to be churned to ash and carried away—a forgotten memory—on an indifferent passing breeze.

...

When Aang was scared, he talked too fast. His sunshine-warm smile lost meaning. He hugged like he was trying to hold onto something, and he laughed a sound that rang hollow—distorted—like an echo returning from far away.

Toph was the first to notice. His heartbeat was...off. He acted like he was surprised by their group hugs, but the evidence of feeling anything was only skin-deep.

Aang was never happy. He didn’t get happy, either. Aang was happy. He and the word meant the same feeling like how the sun would always mean warmth.

Katara noticed it next—nearly in the same moment. She had no seismic sense, but his kiss wasn’t laden with giggles and his heart didn’t try to beat out of his chest to get to hers when she hugged him.

Suki saw it but didn’t tell the others. She was an elite warrior trained for years in the art of stealth. Aang was the White Dragon and White Lotus tile all in one, but he had a terrible poker face.

Five years marked the start of a new quartet and the shedding of all things old to welcome all things new. They knew Aang loved the festival of the anniversary of the war that they ended, but something was different this time.

Sokka’s instincts saw it coming. Zuko’s hearing picked up on it, too.

Toph won him a prize—a plate of pastries trying to be fruit cakes. Aang greedily ate them and said that he loved them.

His shoulders shook and said that he missed them.

His lip trembled and said that they scared him.

Suki touched between his shoulders and guided him towards something called ‘volleyball’. It was a three-on-three game.

None of them realized until they picked teams that Aang was no longer with them.

It was a three-on-three game.

There were seven in their family.

Mai cursed and cut the net before it could become a fire hazard, and she was barely fast enough to save the netting from turning to kindling when Zuko pulled his hair and charred the sand.

They found him an hour later by following the echoing huffs of Appa’s soft sounds.

Appa held him like he had to chase and pin him down, but Aang held him back like he could never hold on tight enough.

…

Hawky was a master navigator and a tool of military purpose.

Hawky was also distracted when he stopped in the Fire Nation Palace on his way to Aang’s room.

Hawky had never seen a turtleduck before. He was domestic and curious even though the mother turtleduck chased him off like he was a massive predator.

And that was exactly how Sokka found his old bird—soaked and waddling for his life.

There was a message in his pack.

Toph threw open her door to find whoever was about to die from such a fast heartbeat just as Sokka ran past, grabbed her, and sprinted them to the others.

Toph would have fought him if she wasn’t so confused.

Sokka didn’t cry that hard even at that time of year when some girl name Yue had to go away.

…

Hey, Gyatso!

I guess it’s been a hundred years, huh? That’s so weird to think about.

I’ve been meditating just like you taught me. Well, I think I’m doing it right. It’s hard to tell, anymore. I sit in front of the mirror to correct my stance, but it hasn’t felt right in a long time. It’s okay, though! I’ll figure something out. I’m sure there’s a prayer statue in one of the temples that’s still in one piece. I could always check in the mountains, too, but I don’t I can’t I’ll try to check the temples again, first.

A good friend told me yo the Air No all of the Guru Pathik said you’re not really gone, and I believe him.

It’s cold today. It rained, before, so new plants should be growing soon. You would really like it here.

Do you I I miss you. I try not to, but Guru Pathik said to let my emotions flow. He’s gone with you, though. It’s been two years, now.

I wish he He left befor Could you give him a hug from me when you see him?

I hope you don’t miss me, Gyatso. Missing people hurts a lot. I really hope you’re happy, Gyatso. I really, really do.

Please, please, please, don’t miss me.

I miss loved love you!

…

Hey, Gyatso

I have more family, now! You’d really like them. Katara could beat you at Pai Sho, for sure. I tried to show them how you swirled the gooey center of the fruit pies, but I don’t think I did it quite right. It’s hard to tell. I tried it a few times in the mirror, but, when I remember you doing it, I can’t see your hands anymore.

I’m trying, though! I’m trying!

Toph helped rebuild the statues in the temple. I don’t really know how, though. Mai and Zuko convinced me to stay with them and teach the schools how to host a dance while the others left on Appa.

The statues look great. They look almost life-like.

It’s been a hundred years, huh? I try not to That’s so weird to think about.

I can’t thi I don’t kno Please don’t miss me, Gyatso. I’ll write to you more so you don’t miss me. I promise. It’ll be okay. 

I can’t s Please, please, please, don’t miss me, okay? Please?

I loved y

My fathe

I loved you, Gy

I 

…

Wet scars like blood splatters littered the letters by the dozens and made Aang’s handwriting nearly illegible.

Katara couldn’t make herself read any more.

She was the last one to break.

Sokka had been the first.

The second she sat next to where their family cocooned him on the bed, he hugged her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling.

She had seen her brother cry before.

But Katara had never seen Sokka weep.

Missing fathers and fathers missing were scars that never quite closed.

Katara choked on years lost and years alone, and she barely felt their family huddle around them, blanketing them, protecting them from what they couldn’t see.

Sokka’s hand left his grip on her to search for someone who wasn’t there. Katara beat him to it, though. Her empty hands pawed her brother’s back and were only mildly tamed by Suki’s tighter hug.

Aang...

The worst part was the helplessness. It wasn’t like they could bring back the dead.

The second worst part was the guilt. He had been alone even when he was right with them.

The third worst part was admitting that they couldn’t heal him. He needed something stronger than stitches to mend his heart.

Sokka tensed and tried to get up with that bullheaded air of setting his mind on something, but he only collapsed further into Katara’s arms. Zuko held them tighter and hushed the both of them. He tried to distract them with a strategy or a plan of what to do.

“...What can we do, Zuko?”

Zuko shut his mouth. Suki held them tighter. Toph sniffled and fisted Sokka’s and Katara’s shirts.

In the too-far-off distance, Appa groaned a series of soft sounds.

They all paused. They all broke.

Suki was the last to start weeping.

…

Clumps. The beast was easy enough to track.

Appa recognized Mai well enough to remember Aang being happy—trusting her—when he hung upside-down from her shoulders and laughed that happy sound that made Appa’s world of no bison feel full of new life.

He let her pass but not without groaning a hurried list of what she had to do to help his buddy.

Mai patted Appa’s nose.

Aang was a pathetic bundle of orange in the far corner of the cave. He was a mountain breaking apart, but his tumbling boulders didn’t make a single sound. His words were cut. His voice was obsolete. He pressed himself into the wall like he might get to something better if only he could come out of the other side.

Mai was a shark fin cutting through still water, and she sunk to a seat right beside him. The ground was cold and damp, but he burned so hot that she could feel the licks of his fever from here.

Her sitting down was the placing of a needle onto a spinning record, and his sounds of sorrow finally broke free of him. They bubbled in his throat like blood threatening to drown him, and he coughed when the instinct to survive overrode his waning will to keep breathing.

Mai closed her eyes and emptied her lungs. She touched the bare skin of his back. He flinched like she had struck him, but he didn’t duck away from her.

Mai let her presence fill his silence. Even he didn’t know what he needed, but she kept doing what seemed to be working. Her hand rode the waves of his choked sounds in long, looping circles that lasted as long as the time it took to take two breathes.

His hiccups dulled to whimpers. His sniffles quieted to shivers. He dug his nails out of his arms and scowled like he was struggling to remember.

The apex of her hand’s circle was his inhale, the bottom of the arch guided his air out. She unwound him in every way and through every layer until he released himself and uncurled enough to show some of the yellow of his robes.

Aang bobbed his head like a metronome.

Mai kept scratching long, looping circles on his back.

He huddled into himself with a ghostly small smile and a barely-there hug, and Mai would have startled if she was a weaker woman.

Aang started to hum.

His vibrato was something within him thinning and threatening to break.

When he started to sing, that thing within him frayed.

It broke when he got to the upturned chorus. It was supposed to be a happy song.

Mai hugged her knees with one arm and scratched his back with the other—keeping him alive like a broken music box from a hundred years ago that lost its key and was fighting fate from becoming obsolete.

…

Aang wore his smile like it was something he could take off.

The Blind Bandit ripped it off of him.

The Blue Spirit broke it in half.

The Kyoshi Warrior tossed it into the fire.

The Painted Lady threw its ashes away.

The Swordsman melted it down and forged it into something protective.

The Dangerous Lady kept its daggers in her sleeves and dared someone to hurt him again.

...

Toph sat across from him and didn’t let him be alone.

Zuko walked past his room to remind him that there was a way out.

Suki brought him books with pictures to show him how to feel again.

Katara was his shadow, his shield, and his favorite dancing partner, coaxing his smile to come out and play with hers.

Sokka told him jokes and laughed hard enough for both of them.

(Mai sat with him and listened to everything she didn’t need to know but everything she wanted to learn about his loss.)

...

When Aang was loved, he couldn’t talk fast enough. His past and his future lost meaning. All that mattered was his family right in front of him and the smiles that bellied their every feeling.

They were tattoos that he could never wash off, not that he would ever, ever try.

Five years of wanting were five Fall seasons of feeling lost. Five Fall seasons of searching were five Fall seasons of feeling alone.

Five friends and one love were six members of his second family.

Two brothers a foot taller and three sisters twice as strong as him meant Aang rarely won when they wrestled.

Sokka was safe and familiar as he sat on Aang’s back. Katara shoved him off. Toph laughed and took his place.

Aang walked, almost skipping—so giddy that he was going to spill over—next to them. They went slow on purpose to stretch out the precious journey home, but he didn’t mind. He told them all about his first family and everything he loved about them.

“—it, Zuko! He rode a dragon, once, too! Oh, Katara, you wouldn’t believe—“

Five years and five seasons of dead and dying things meant nothing to them. They almost lost him in the blink of an eye, and they wouldn’t look away ever again.

They were each a stretch of ink tattooed around his heart. They were stronger than stitches. They were a part of him.

They shooed him away so they could pull him closer, and their smiles were challenges to the size of his own.

...

When Aang was hugged, all he knew was love. All of his wants and needs lost meaning. Everything that mattered to him was everyone who held him, and everyone who held him were always there for him before Aang even knew that he needed them.

Their hugs were surprises like finding out the dead were alive.

They surprised him every time. He flinched, however, like he had never done before.

He was trying, though. He was trying.

Him missing family and family missing him were scars that would always be tender.

Tender was okay, though.

The secret was the gooey center.

“...Sometimes...life is like this...t-this dark tunnel,” he told his swallowed shadow, “...C’n’t see the light...but if...if you just keep going...”

His family were already in the prayer field. They looked at him with faces armed with smiles and arms loaded with hugs.

Sokka waved and said something he shouldn’t have and that, even though it made their family laugh, compelled Katara to shove him into the fountain.

The water was cold.

Sokka screamed.

Aang froze for a small century. He didn’t breathe for a longer eternity.

...And then Aang laughed.

And Aang cried.

And Aang laughed so hard that he cried.

All Aang cared about were the arms now around him, and all he knew were their soft words spoken over and over.

“We love you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Sokka, you’re a dumbass.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The muted smack of a backhand sounded too much like Mai’s for it to be anyone else’s.

Aang laughed a little harder.

He didn’t want to go home, anymore. Home was a memory. Memories couldn’t feel like this.

In their arms, he was finally where he was meant to be.

In their arms, Aang was happy.

In their arms was what home should be.

And when they held him tighter, Aang never felt more wanted in his entire life.

...

And when next Aang needed to speak with him, he found a way.

“Hey, Gyatso,” Aang said, speaking to the person in the mirror who was once a boy, then the Avatar, and now a young man trying to make himself into something that his memories would be proud of. “Did you miss me? You won’t believe this, but Katara lost to me at Pai Sho this morning. She got me back with the fruit pie, though. It even had sea prunes in it...”

Aang talked some more, and he talked fast. The breeze wound into and through the folds of his robes like it was a lounging cat curling into the warm rooms of a new home and new favorite sunny spot. He smiled something brighter than joy and welcomed the windy hugs that could always hold him just tight enough.

When Aang talked to his father, his master’s tattoos lost meaning. The tattoo Gyatso had left behind was so bright that Aang’s eyes watered if he looked thought about it too much.

He talked and talked and cried and talked until he left himself breathless.

It was a strange feeling, being breathless.

His element was suspended away from him, but nothing felt out of his reach.

A body or two (or three) threw themselves at his door.

“Twinkletoes!”

“You better not have my lipstick again! I bought you your own for a reason!”

“Hurry up, Avatar, we’re going to be late!”

Aang laughed just as the—the wall opened?

Katara lassoed his neck with her arms and threatened to kill him with a kiss that yanked him above the clouds and dropped him into free-fall.

“What...” He blinked. “...I mean I...I-I mean I don’t...” He turned a color and temperature that made Katara smile like he hadn’t seen her do in far too long of a time. “...What do I have to do to get another?”

“Ugh.” Mai rolled her eyes and pointed down the wide hall of the secret passage. “Just don’t do anything stupid. And don’t be late for the fireworks.”

Aang smirked something evil, and Katara couldn’t help but smile.

The firelilies only looked pretty when Aang had two dozen in one hand and her hand in his other. He kissed her knuckles, offered his arm, and escorted her down the invisible red carpet. She hid her face in his arm and trusted him to keep her from walking into anything.

He laughed.

His empire breathed a sigh of relief.

The anniversary of the new world they built was familiar, but none of them felt home until they met together on the hill.

And nothing felt right until their sickness started acting up again.

“Aang! Get back here!”

“Aw, c’mon, Sifu Hotman! Where’s your sense of fun?”

None of them realized the fireworks were over until the sky got a bit darker and it was time to go home.

Aang was tired. And when Aang was tired, he dragged his feet and spoke in slurred songs. His lyrics found every lost feeling and forgotten meaning. They were long lists of pretty names and precious things, tender to the touch and still healing.

He was tired, happy, and teary-eyed as he sang a diary-entry of their day to the breeze dancing around them.

Four seasons were six loves and two families that would never let him slip away into the season of dead and dying things.

He was their goofy little brother and their grinning parasite. He was a candle left out in the rain.

So they built a fort around him. And they hugged him like they could never hold him tight enough.

And when Aang was at peace, he didn’t say a word. Words were meaningless. They were a constraint. They only meant a certain something.

So he laughed.

And he laughed.

And he laughed.

He laughed even when his family cried, and he laughed harder when they learned to laugh with him.

Six years of found family were six years of found love.

And all six members of his family would never—never—let him Fall again.

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

[kumeko]

A/N: For Golden Dearest, a Claudeleth Zine! I wanted to do a little Claude pining for my piece.

…

…

…

…

A chilly breeze wafted through the royal library, carrying with it the warm scent of spice and roasted meat. Nose in his book, Claude stared blankly at the page for a long moment as he registered the new smells, the sensation of cold wind blowing through his hair. His nose twitched. Looking up, he was taken aback by how dark it was in the library. Outside, strings of lanterns lit up the street markets, their glow barely visible from the library’s windows. The smells were both familiar and strange; it had been too long since he’d eaten proper Almyran food and the thought of it made him homesick. Even though he was home now, it would take some time for his body to adjust.

 “It’s that late already?” Claude murmured, setting down his book and pinching the top of his nose. On the table in front of him, several books lay open, their contents barely touched. Beside them were several letters from Byleth, the latest one still waiting for a response. When he had come back to Almyra, he had known it would be a long, hard climb to the top.

 What he hadn’t expected was the amount of studying he’d have to do. It felt like he spent more time here learning than he’d ever done at the academy. The politics in the region had changed in the years he’d spent abroad, each alteration transforming other smaller areas. Politics was about dealing with those webs of connections. It was what made it exciting.

 It was also what made it exhausting.

Once more, a cool wind ruffled his hair and despite himself, Claude shivered. The nights in the Almyran main castle were nothing at all like its days, the warmth of the sun long gone once the moon showed its face. His stomach rumbled and he chuckled. “Alright, alright, I get it. Time for a break.”

 No one replied as he got up, his chair scraping on the wooden floor. There were no “Finally! I wonder what’s in the kitchen?” from Raphael, no stony glares from Lysithea as she tried and failed to concentrate, no smug smirks from Lorenz as he got up a second later. No, here there was only silence. Not even the servants wanted to be seen with the outcast from Fódlan.

 Claude had expected as much when he’d made his decision. And yet…stuttering Marianne, more comfortable with horses than people. Ignatz and his secret paintings. Leonie, willing to challenge anyone, anytime. Hilda and her many schemes that miraculously kept her from doing any work.

 Byleth. His throat caught at that last one, at that last memory. The late nights they’d spend in the library, plotting out the course of the war. As skilled as she was at war, she was less proficient with long-term strategies. More often than not, he’d look up from his notes to find her fast asleep on his right, her breathing shallow, ink smudging her cheeks.

 The seat on his right was empty now. The library was empty. They were all in Fódlan, and he was here in Almyra. Seven years ago, he had left behind everything and everyone he’d known for a brand-new world.

 Somehow, the journey back was even harder than he’d planned.

 -x-

 “Khalid.”

 It took Claude five seconds to realize that Nader was talking to him. Chuckling, he released his notched arrow, striking his target slightly off-centre. Done with practice for the day, he slung his bow over his shoulder and turned around. “Ha ha, I have to get used to hearing that, don’t I?”

 Standing behind him, Nadar guffawed. “Don’t let your mother hear that. She picked your name, after all.”

 Despite the hot, afternoon sun, Claude shivered. He’d seen enough destruction left in his mother’s wake to know what that entailed. “I have enough of a challenge without the demon chasing me.”

 “Don’t let her hear that either.” Coming closer now, he ruffled Claude’s hair affectionately. No matter how much he’d grown, Claude felt like a child at that touch. Nader’s hand was always impossibly big and warm. “Are you missing all of your targets now, or just that one?”

 “Can’t get perfect all the time, you never know who’s watching.” Ducking away from Nader’s reach, he patted his disarrayed hair back into place. “It takes a lot of skill to purposely miss. Even more than it takes to reach the center.”

 Nader’s brow rose. “Does it now?”

 “It does.”  Claude rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “I don’t think you came all the way to the training grounds to discuss my archery?”

 Nader chuckled once more. “No, but maybe I should consider it.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a thin letter. “This arrived this morning, for you. I made sure to take it before any of your siblings spotted it.”

 Claude tried not to smile too much as he took it. “Thanks.”

 As expected, the writing on the front was in Byleth’s hand. For a second, he traced out his name on the letter, his finger hovering over the dried ink. It was a good thing they were alone out here. He could feel his expression softening automatically. It had been too long since her last letter. Carefully, reverently, he tucked it into his shirt.

 “You’re not going to read it?” Nader asked, surprised. The older man stroked his ragged beard. “I thought you’d tear it open immediately.”

 “Oh?” Claude smirked suggestively, leaning closer to his former teacher. “Are you that curious about my love life? I didn’t think you were that kind of person, Nader. I mean, I thought it’d be better to read this in private—don’t want anyone to get too hot and bothered by it, but if you want to hear all the sordid details…” He trailed off meaningfully and winked.

 “You certainly have grown.” Nader guffawed once more, his laugh like a bear’s grunt, before wrapping an arm around Claude’s shoulders and squeezing him tight. “I’ll leave you alone. Got enough saucy tales of my own without adding yours to it.”

 -x-

 “What do you want?” Direct as ever, his half-sister reclined regally on her plush seat and regarded him. A perfectly arched brow rose and she crossed her legs. “Well?”

 “What makes you think I want anything?” Claude replied, an easy smile on his face. His hands were clasped behind his erect back, his shoulders relaxed. He wanted to paint a disarming picture. It was always easier when your opponent looked down on you.

 Unfortunately, while he had a lot practice with Lorenz, his sister wasn’t buying it. “Khalid, since when do you approach others unless you need something?” She rested her chin on her hand, her long, painted fingers tapping her cheek. “The only question left is what are you willing to pay for it?”

 Claude chuckled softly, mirth colouring his tone as he played along. “I can’t pull anything over you, can I?”

 There were rules to politics, rules that kept you safe, that let you take advantage of others, that let others take advantage of you. A charming smile kept others at bay. Words had to mean nothing and everything. It was easier to give a fake weakness than to reveal a real one.

 From the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of blue and his words died in his throat. She hadn’t needed any of that, had she? Effortlessly, Byleth had charmed all of Garreg Mach. Even though her smile had been a rarity. Even though her weaknesses were open for all to see. Even though her words were ever honest.

 The new Fódlan she was building…his hand twitched. He wanted to see it. A world where merit trumped lineage. Where borders meant nothing. He wanted to see it. He wanted to see her.

 “Khalid?”

 He forced himself to look in front of him, away from that flash of blue and his scattered thoughts. “Sorry, I was just feeling overwhelmed. It’s not every day I get to trade words with the crown princess, after all.”

 -x-

 It was only by candlelight that Claude allowed himself to read Byleth’s letter. In the privacy of his quarters, alone and away from prying eyes, if only so no one could see the soft curve of his lips as he pulled out her letter once more. He’d kept each and every one, though by now the letters were so well-worn they were barely legible.

 At one point, he imaged her letters must have smelled like her, all rainwater and pine needles. Now, they only carried the scent of dust and horses from the thousands of miles it had travelled to reach him. The flame flickered as he opened the envelope, casting long shadows on him as he unfolded the sheets of paper. Her writing was as concise as ever, each word written compactly to save room. It was the way of the mercenary, the way of her father.

 Hi Claude.

 And now, the way of Byleth. Claude chuckled as he read the first line in the letter. It seemed even time and distance couldn’t improve her skills. “No dear? I’m hurt.”

 As I thought, it is difficult to rebuild a nation. Particularly when we have lost the majority of our leaders.

 “As straight to the point as ever,” he murmured softly, his eyes lowering. How many friends had they lost in this war? His classmates, his peers—each death had weighed heavier than the last. Could he have saved any of them? His smiles only held power in the castle; outside, they were nothing. Dimitri had rejected his hand outright, revenge blinding him and his house to all other possibilities.

 And Edelgard…

 Byleth had trembled after she’d killed the Emperor, her jaw tight as she watched her head roll. He wondered if she replayed that scene in her head. If she dreamed of that sword, of the weight of it.

 He still couldn’t look at the colour red the same.

 His grip tightened, crinkling the paper. “Whoops, can’t have that,” he said glibly, forcing himself out of his thoughts. Claude flattened the paper, smoothening out the wrinkles. “These are going to be family heirlooms, after all.”

 Hubert would have made fun of him for that. A starry-eyed Dorothea would have called it romantic. Slyly, Sylvain might have swapped love stories. In the future, he hoped no one would know this dull ache that throbbed in his chest or the heavy lump in his throat.

 At least his house had made it through, unscathed. Especially Hilda; Byleth’s every other sentence for the next two paragraphs were about her and her exploits: a children’s book with Seteth, charming the pants off every noble she encountered, and starting a fashion line. And Claude had thought he was accomplished. Ignatz was painting and Raphael visited his sister and for all the sorrow the war had caused, there was joy too.

 Claude read Byleth’s letter unhurriedly, savouring each word. News from Fódlan was hard to get here, news of his friends even more so. Yet, no matter how slowly he read, the end came all too soon.

 Progress is slow, but steady. Come back soon,

 Byleth

 Her usual final words. It was never ‘I love you’ or ‘I miss you’, just ‘Come back soon’. He wondered how Byleth looked when she penned them, if she sat alone in her room just as he did his, carefully picking out each word as though he were searching for jewels in the dirt. Claude pressed his fingers against Come back soon, remembering the feel of her rough hands. Her soft lips. She had only recently remembered how to smile.

 He hoped she wouldn’t forget before he came back.

 It was funny. Claude had made it through five years without her, five long years buoyed only by his belief that she’d back. Byleth had shown him miracles and he knew she’d show him one last one, that someone like her wouldn’t just die like that.

 Now, he knew exactly where she was, knew exactly how to reach her, and he could barely make it through a few months without wanting to run back to her arms. He’d lost the ability to do without her. Utterly, completely lost it.

 “When I get back, you’d better be ready,” Claude whispered, reaching into his tunic and pulling out a fine silver chain. Dangling off it, her ring glinted in the candlelight. It glittered full of the promises of tomorrow.

 In the middle of the night, tomorrow felt like a long way off. He could only hope she missed him half as much as he missed her.

[avversiera-writes]

try again; in every day we breathe life [tobirama senju/you] - chapter 6

Chapter 6 - Now

Summary: Tobirama’s secret disquisition is taking a toll on him. More of a comfort chapter. 

Word count: ~3k

available on AO3. 

Chapter 1 - Now | Chapter 2 - Then, part 1 | Chapter 2 - Then, part 2 | Chapter 3 - Now | Chapter 4 - Then | Chapter 5 - Then | 

Tobirama massages the bridge of his nose as the words on the paper in front of him starts to blur into incoherent sentences. Tremors plague his hands too often now, and his chest often feels tight. He knows these are signs that he is very fatigued and that he lacks sleep–these days, he has simply stopped sleeping altogether. The energy that he rides on is the hope that he can finish his secret disquisition, so that finally he can rest. He just needs to do this one last thing. 

 The events of the year had spurred him on to throw himself on his Edo Tensei . He feels that this is the only way he can cope and handle his troubles in the near future. Especially if his theory about his brother is true: that he is dying everyday he lives.

 He is almost never wrong. 

 He needs a backup plan. A safeguard, among his other collections of safeguards. Someone like him can never have too many. 

 And he believes that the answers lie in his creation. 

Tobirama sighs and he presses his palms into his eyes. Maybe he really needs sleep. 

 The office doors open after a knock, and he looks up to find his brother. He cannot help but notice that Hashirama’s hair is silky and that his face is smooth, free of the blemishes of a wrinkle. There are no spots on his skin, and in fact, his skin seems to glow with youth. 

“Elder brother,” Tobirama greets him, with utmost respect. 

 Hashirama’s face softens towards him. The glaze in his eyes from the other night is gone. He looks more alert. “You called for me?” 

Tobirama tries to hide the way his hands seem to shake and fishes for the papers that he wants his brother to see. He takes his time, in the guise of searching for it, even though he is organized enough to know where each document is. 

 “I…” Tobirama begins, taking his time to form his words. “First, I have told you that this is not a good idea. Despite my best efforts to persuade you, I know you are also quite stubborn. So here. The approval to begin the construction of your precious statues. It commences next month.” 

Hashirama’s eyes widened in surprise. “Brother, I don’t know what to say.”

 Tobirama rolls his eyes, but much to his chagrin, he gives his last sibling a genuine smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. My wife put me up to this.” 

 Hashirama laughs, and Tobirama is glad that it sounds carefree. His eyes form into beautiful crescents, and Tobirama softens. There is his cheerful brother. 

“Give my thanks to her,” Hashirama says. “She is the best of us.” 

 Tobirama nods, and he clutches his hands under the desk. He will always agree to that, because as compared to him, her flaws pale in comparison. 

Hashirama pauses before turning towards the door. “And come visit your eldest nephew and his wife soon. We have heard that they will have a girl in about a month.” Hashirama chuckles giddily. “I will be a grandfather!” 

Tobirama stops breathing, but thankfully, Hashirama has left before he can break down any further. 

 He closes his eyes, and suddenly, he is taken back to a more peaceful morning, as he prepares to travel to Kumogakure. That day will never be erased from his mind, not when he could have connected the pieces that were falling into place that almost cost her life. If he wasn’t so busy, if he just prioritized her a little bit more and only trusted himself to look after her, then maybe he could have been there on time. As the Hokage, it is his job to keep the village safe, but what kind of husband does that make him? When, once again, he has chosen the village over her.

Tobirama remembers her giddy smile, and the warm sensation spreading across his chest as she whispers to him a secret. 

 “ I think it’s a girl ,” she says, unable to control the wide grin spreading across her lips. 

Tobirama feels his heart break further. He hates to see his wife reduced to tears, because those are few and far in between. She is strong, and has always known a clear line between right and wrong. Now, it is almost like she is becoming like him. 

 He was very relieved to hear that she could not ever go through with killing Kimiko, but if he wasn’t there to stop her on time, who knows what could have happened. 

Tobirama does not cry, but if he is going to, this will be the moment he will choose to weep. 

 He feels as if there is nothing he can do, and there is no tangible way to come through on one end in one piece. The gods may just be out there to spite him. 

 Everything is falling apart. He can build kingdoms and construct beautiful castles. He can take dreams and make them into a reality, but they all mean nothing if the people that he centered his life around cannot be with him. 

Being alone has never been a worry for him. Solitude has been his preference for a while now, but being truly alone, and losing those he gave his all for, he would rather lose a limb than bear that kind of loneliness. After all he is human, and not a god. As much as he plays that part. 

//

He finally goes home, having lost his time once again over his endeavours. He trudges up the stairs quietly, and into the bathroom to try and wash up. He feels dirty. There is dried blood caked under his short nails, and he smells like chemicals, ink and death. He carefully peels his shirt over his head, and he stares at his reflection for a moment. 

 He is beginning to resemble the corpses that he hangs out with. 

 He leans over the sink and runs the water. He opts for using the faucet instead of the bathtub, afraid to make loud noises that will wake you. 

“Tobirama?” 

Your husband whirls around, and you give him a once-over. He is trembling a little. You note how messy his hair is–messier than normal–and how his eyes are stark bright like fresh blood, and how his face is becoming knife-like from the days he spends forgoing proper nutrition. Your eyes go to his cheek, where there is a smudge of dirt on it. It almost looks like dried blood, and it makes you swallow your words. 

 You are unsure what to say next, because you have a gut feeling that you should not get closer to Tobirama. He is different from the man you last saw this morning, who was calm and collected. The man before you looks like a stray animal ready to bite the hand that tries to pet them. 

Tobirama tries to get a hold of himself, but his mind and his senses betray him. He feels overwhelmed. 

 "You should be asleep," he mumbles under his breath. 

 "I have been sleeping all day," you reply softly, not wanting to alarm him any further. 

 "Please," Tobirama says. He does not want you to see him like this. You make him feel weak. "Go to bed." 

You ignore the slight hurt that you feel from being dismissed, but this is Tobirama. You have learned how to look beyond what he is saying outrightly. You can sense how freaked out he is. 

 "What happened?" You ask in a low, urgent tone. 

Tobirama turns away and he takes a few deep breaths. He feels like he is about to retch. "Nothing."

 He hears you step closer cautiously, and Tobirama tenses. If you touch him, he will melt and he will let go of any inhibitions he has left. If you touch him, he will want more. If you do, he may also react in a way that may hurt you as he could not bare any human contact on his skin at the moment. Just the thought of it makes his stomach curl.  

"Go to bed," Tobirama repeats and he fills his cupped hands with water. He slaps the water onto his face, but when he opens his eyes, he finds that you are still there. 

 "Tobi," you whisper. 

Water drips from his face and he turns off the faucet. He is not sure what to do next. The two of you have your own brands of stubbornness. 

 The sound of your voice saying his name seems to ground him, and this prompts you to get closer. 

 Tobirama takes the nearest towel to dab his face dry, and when he finishes, you take the towel from him and put it on the pile of used towels.  

"My love," you murmur softly. "Let’s get you dressed for bed." 

Tobirama takes a deep breath, and he turns to you. You wait for him to come to you instead of taking his hand to pull him forward, and from there, you follow him back into your room. Tobirama dresses in silence, and you stand there, your hands opening and closing, trying to figure out what to do next. 

 You are not a stranger to his changing moods, but sometimes they come unexpectedly, and they are not always the same. You know that he has stopped sleeping, and opts to skip meals to attend to whatever it is he’s busying himself with. His silhouette in the darkness is noticeably thinner, and while you are waiting for him to make you understand what he is doing or to let you know what else is bothering him, you are becoming more concerned. 

 You hate to see him like this.  

“Tobirama,” you utter his name, and slowly, you step closer into his space. You see how tense he is, so you make your movements slow and non-urgent. “It’s okay.” 

 You watch him run his fingers through his hair and let out a shaky breath. 

“It’s okay,” you repeat. You try to control the tears that are coming. 

 The shadows of the dark room seem to engulf him, but you will never abandon him and leave him to fend for himself. 

"I'm coming closer," you tell him, and slowly, you slide your arms around his waist from behind.

 You can feel him stiffen, but it does not discourage you. You press your chest on his back and you rest your head in between his shoulder blades, and you hold him. It takes a long time, but finally, his body melts into yours and he gives into your warmth.

 Tobirama lets himself rest in your embrace, and he reminds himself that you are alive, that you are breathing, and your skin has color, not like the ashen gray that dead bodies have. You are warm and supple, not cold and monumental. 

 He is so tired, but there is no such thing as rest for people like him. People like him rest in the battlefield, and it is both their bed and their grave. 

Tobirama rests his arms on yours and he holds your arms. For a moment, you make him still. For a moment, the world falls away, and the races in his mind make its pause. He is not one to ask for much, let alone look for comfort, but for now, he lets himself be held. 

//

After ushering him to bed, Tobirama is silent. 

 You sense that whatever thoughts that are swirling in his mind have settled like dust. He is not trembling anymore, and the natural paleness of his skin has returned, not like the pale green hue that he seems to embody earlier. The two of you face each other, hands entwined on your pillows. Sleep is a faraway thought, but you are glad to have him like this. 

 Tobirama watches you intently as you press a kiss on his knuckles, and then rest his hand under your cheek. 

“I love you,” Tobirama murmurs. He rarely says this, but it always rings true. He feels ashamed for saying this to you after hiding so many secrets, but he never lies about what he feels towards you. Those three words taste gritty on his tongue, but he thinks you must know. Just in case your perception of him changes.

 He doesn't deserve you, and inside, his heart clashes on trying to be worthy of your love and trying to be the leader this village needs. He is always sure of his ways, but when he sees you teetering between black and white, he questions his path because he sees a part of himself in you. 

 Perhaps, you do the same. 

“You have to rest,” you tell him. “Send a shadow clone. Or give yourself a full day-off. For your sake.” 

 “I don’t know how to stop,” he tells you bluntly. “I must remain steadfast.” 

 “Can you really do this for long?” 

“I have to,” Tobirama says. “There is no other way.” 

 Your eyes swim, and the pace of your heart starts to pick up. Those words scare you. 

  Your Senju husband will fail , Madara once said in your dreams. He will do everything right and what he is supposed to do, but in the grand scheme of things, he is nothing. 

You close your eyes, feeling dread creep under your skin. 

“You know I am right,” Tobirama continues. 

 “No.” You bite your lip. “Sometimes your right does not mean it is right.” 

 “I know,” Tobirama says and his eyes refuse to meet yours. 

A tear escapes your eye, but Tobirama is quick to wipe it away with his free hand. 

 “Do not cry for me,” Tobirama says. 

 “How can you say that?” You say with disbelief. “I have the right to cry for you.” 

Tobirama sighs, and rests his palm on your cheek. The two of you begin a staring contest, but you win when Tobirama finally looks away. 

“We’re becoming ridiculous, aren’t we?” 

 “Quite,” Tobirama yawns. 

 “You still have me.” You lean towards him. 

Tobirama pulls you closer, and he holds you to his chest. You close your eyes as you feel his heart underneath your ear. He still holds you as strongly and certainly. 

“I will take your suggestion tomorrow,” Tobirama finally says. “One thing at a time, right?” 

 “Good enough for me,” you murmur into his chest and you press a kiss on it. 

“All right,” Tobirama mutters, and his arms tighten around you.

To be continued...

Chapter 7 - Then >> 

[madatobiweek2019-2021]

Submission from PeacefulDiscord

Back To Spots

“Are you sure this is a good idea?,” Madara stared at his idiot friend incredulously. “If we die in here, I’m going to kill you Hashirama.”

Hashirama paused his snooping, turning away from the test tubes balancing precariously in his hands. He set them down on the table, a smidge too close to the edge if you asked Madara but whatever. That was Hashirama’s problem when Tobirama saw how displaced everything was. Brown eyes peered woefully at him, tearfully vehement as the other man pouted, though ineffective with the messy state Hashirama was in. Scraps of parchment paper were stuck in his hair, ink streaking across his cheek and speckling his fingers.

Madara crinkled his nose, chucking a handkerchief into Hashirama’s face.

Hashirama beamed, rubbing the cloth against his cheek and smearing the ink more. “I don’t think it will be that bad Madara. Tobirama has a lot of protective seals around his lab to keep it safe!”

“Seals that you’ve no problem getting around!”

It was worrisome really, as foolish as Hashirama was, being related to Tobirama and married to Mito had left him with many chances to learn basic skills. While he could not fully understand the way seals functioned or how to lay them, he knew much too well how to disable some. Some like the ones Tobirama had around his lab.

Not to mention his willingness to disable them.

“Now Madara—,” Hashirama began, shoving the napkin into his pocket before snatching up another scroll that looked newer and striking through yet another one of Tobirama’s protective seals.

“See! Like that! You even took down the damn wall with your Mokuton just to get in here! If we don’t die because of whatever disasters are in here then we will die at your brother’s hands!”

Madara shuddered. The last time he aggravated the younger man he’d found himself on the receiving end on some awful seal that summoned nearby birds and critters to him, drawing them to burrow and nest in his hair. Villagers had flocked around him, curious and far too amused, tittering behind hands as they watched the animals lay siege to Madara’s hair knowing he was too busy running away to scream at them. His hair was ruined, bitten off and tangled so horribly that he had to chop the strands to a length he hadn’t had since being twelve years old.

He can already hear the sharp snap of the younger man’s voice— “Don’t go in my lab without me!"— as if he were standing right there.

"It’s important! He’s been in here for weeks—" Hashirama exclaimed, puppy dog eyes on full force.

"Three days! He was in here for three days and he actually came out to eat and take naps—”

“—and who knows what he’s been getting up to! He could be getting hurt or devising something awful—”

“He’s been making food preserving seals for the past month!”

“Do you remember the chain-reacting explosive tags? The undead jutsu? He said he was working on enhanced storage seals!”

Madara froze, mouth opened to yell, and clamped his lips shut. Tobirama did have a way of spiraling away from his original intentions— it wouldn’t hurt to just look to make sure nothing was too….deviated.

“Fine,” he huffed. “But if anything happens I’m chopping your hair off!”

Hashirama squeaked, hands coming up to clutch at his hair. And knocking over the test tubes, sending them careening to the floor with a resounding shatter. Madara watched in horror as the liquids met the black lines of a seal Hashirama had left on the floor— to be analyzed with Mito, he said— and lit them. Colored smoke filled the air and Madara could hear the ground breaking apart moments before Hashirama used Mokuton to send them upwards away from the mess. With a quick wind jutsu, weaker than usual he noticed as his vision swam, Madara sent the smoke into the vent system Tobirama had incorporated early on in case of explosions or dangerous fumes.

Madara rubbed his eyes, carefully lowering himself to the ground. His body was aching— much like the summer over a decade ago when he’d grown almost half a foot in what felt like a few short nights. Coughing, he looked up to see how his friend fared and shrieked.

Sitting in front of him, rubbing his eyes, was Hashirama. But a twelve year old Hashirama. With too big clothes and that godforsaken bowl cut.

“What the fuck! Hashirama, you're—”

“Oh my god, Madara you—”

Madara glanced at his hands. His smaller than before, less calloused hands. “We’re kids again. What the fuck? How? Hashirama!”

He snarled, throwing himself forward to tackle the other man, no, boy, to the ground. “The fuck did you do Senju?!”

“I don’t know— ow! Madara! Don’t, not the face!”

“I'll end you!”

———————————————————-

Half an hour and a semi brutal spar that resulted in Hashirama’s entire face being painted in ink later and both boys were sitting sullenly in the debris they had made of the once pristine lab.

“Tobi’s gonna kill is,” Hashirama sniffled, tears cutting through the black. “I won’t even get to see what my baby looks like.”

“If they’re lucky, nothing like you,” Madara sneered, pulling at the sticky glue-like substance that he’d tumbled into during the fight, snarling angrily as his sleeves still stuck together.

He was surprised his clothes even stayed on, they were so big, but the ties must have worked for something. Hashirama had already wrapped himself up in the excess cloth and tied it off as tightly as he could with his obi and other straps of fabric that he tore from his haori. Madara, on the other hand, would just have to wait.

He tugged at his sleeves again, cursing the glue and Hashirama.

“Ah Madara, don’t be mean!” The brunette sobbed. “My baby would be cute! Even if they looked like me!”

Madara opened his mouth to respond— wanted to sneer that it was good Hashirama knew he wasn’t attractive— but froze as the door opened at just that moment. Red eyes peered distractedly over a thick book, widening as they caught onto the state of the lab. With careful movements, Tobirama lowered the book and set it down, hand reaching for his sword.

“Anija. Madara. What did you do?” He snarled low in his throat, biting through every word like a separate sentence.

The boys blanched, glancing to each other and then shunshinning to the window only for Tobirama to slam his hand against the wall, a seal stretching across the metal to form a barrier they couldn’t get through.

“It was an accident!” Hashirama wailed, gasping through his crocodile tears. “I-am-so so-rry o-tou-to.”

He ran over and clutched at Tobirama’s yukata, burying his messy face into it. “I’m such a bad brother!”

“Anija! Stop that! You’re dirtying my— get off you idiot!”

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe and—!”

“By destroying my lab?” Tobirama shoved at Hashirama, stumbling when the boy’s grip didn’t let up. “Damn it, you poisonous vine, let go!”

“Tobi—!”

“I will get Mito-nee in here so fast—”

Hashirama yelped, letting go with a heavy pout. “You don’t have to be like thaaaat,” he whined, scuffing his foot on the ground. “That’s a really low blow, Tobi. How could you do that to your precious brother—”

“After he destroyed my lab and turned he and his idiot friend back into children?” Tobirama snarked, leveling both of them with a sharp glare. “I’ve no idea.”

Madara shuffled guiltily, wincing as he took in the mess they made.

“We can clean it up!” He offered quickly. Hashirama squawked, shaking his head.

“Oh?” Tobirama quirked a brow. “Properly?”

Madara could feel Tobirama’s chakra rise and fall, unsteady and bothered like a riptide, dragging him closer to anger and not letting him calm down, and nodded hastily. Hashirama became frantic in his head shaking, panicked as he looked at the mess miserably,

“Absolutely. No problem. It’ll take an hour. Tops!” Madara promised, grinning a touch sheepishly even as he tossed his friend a glare. “I understand why you’re upset— we shouldn’t have invaded your privacy and we certainly shouldn’t have made such a mess of things. We were concerned but we should have respected your boundaries. You’ve my sincerest apologies Tobirama.”

Tobirama’s gaze softened and he huffed out a breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“It’s fine. You haven’t gotten into anything too important. We now need to figure out what you two have done and fix it. None of my seals were meant to do this.”

Hashirama slumped in relief, “Oh thank god, I hate cleaning— what?”

———————————————————

“Oh wow, I haven’t seen Hashirama look that awful in years," Touka breathed out in wonderment. ”I almost forgot he was such an ugly bastard.“

"Touka-nee, you’re supposed to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t destroy anything, not keep an eye on his confidence to just destroy it,” Tobirama sighed over his brother’s wailing. Then, speaking over the sound of Madara pummeling his brother, asked, “Mito-nee, will you be able to handle the Hokage’s duties in your state?”

His sister-in-law and he were able to deduce that the jutsu, since many had overlapped and were then combined by the liquid soaking through the papers and smudging the inks, would eventually wear off on its own, a few days at most given the seals were not meant for major bends in time and space. And, even without that, it would, or at least should, not take them too long to devise a remedy.

But that was for tomorrow. Now, they were much too tired and irritable.

“My pregnant state, Tobirama?” Mito arched a brow. “You’d be amazed at what I can handle in this state, brother-in-law. The bigger concern is will you be able to handle Madara while Izuna is away?”

Tobirama looked at the two boys now disguised as other, unidentifiable children. Too many people remembered them as children or at least would recognize their features. With their weaker abilities it was best to keep them hidden and separated (they couldn’t last too long without bickering and yelling each other’s name in rage, like the complete idiots they were) to not give away the precarious situation the Village had now found itself in. The jutsu that changed Madara’s haír to a soft, pale blue, gently wishing about his face and skin to an olive tone did nothing to hide the fire in his chakra boiling beneath.

A new student from a distant place— Cloud Country perhaps— that was the story they would go by. A student adopted from parents Tobirama had saved.

The younger man felt a sudden tiredness fill his bones watching Madara blow flames at Hashirama’s shoulder length purple hair only to be slapped at by many flowers that erupted quite spontaneously from the wood paneling on the wall.

This would be a long few days if they couldn’t undo the mess that was made of Tobirama’s work. 

“Izuna may find himself rather alone if he doesn’t hurry back,” he rubbed between his eyes, hand glowing green to chase away the headache. “Who knows? He might thank me.”

He ignored the smirks on his cousin and sister-in-law’s faces, snatching Madara by the wrist and all but hauling him out of Hashirama’s home  to his own. Madara glared and very pointedly took his hand away to instead clasp Tobirama’s in his own, twining their fingers together and smiling triumphantly when Tobirama did nothing but sigh.

Oh yes, it’d be a long few days indeed.

———————————————————

The walk home had been silent, the streets much too empty for distraction and they were inside Tobirama’s home before he could properly gather himself. He could admire the timing, if anything. Just yesterday his house had been strewn with far too many papers and even some dust, given the time he spent in the office or his lab instead. Messes from ruined meals had been spattered across his kitchen and his dirty laundry pile had consisted of all of his clothes save for the set on his back. That was the breaking point, sending him into the cleaning frenzy that lasted clear into early morning, until every corner was cleaned to pristine, his laundry washed, dried, and packed neatly away. It was the most presentable and welcoming his home had ever been and the first time Madara, child or not, would actually step past the threshold.

He resolved to give himself a silent pat on the back, watching carefully as Madara took everything from the bookshelves to the altar in, knowing those hawk-like eyes were looking for dust as his clean freakishness often had him doing and finding none.

The tension seeped from Madara’s shoulders and he carefully took off his shoes, setting them neatly aside as he wandered furthered in, already growing comfortable in Tobirama’s small space. At least, if anything, Tobirama could rest knowing he had made a good impression, hoping it would serve him well when the jutsu finally wore off.

“You know,” Madara began over his bowl of noodles, slurping the noodles gracelessly. “I don’t think your brother would’ve wanted me to come stay with you if he knew I was courting you.”

“You’re a child at the moment— that’s hardly relevant right now,” still Tobirama felt his face warm and he swallowed some of his food quickly to disguise it. What they had while Madara was an adult was— nice. A small secret for just the two of them while they got comfortable with each other.

Just the other day he and the older man had a picnic besides a lake closer to the edges of Konoha, waded deep and relaxed beneath the stars— quiet because they hadn’t needed any words to enjoy just being with each other. It was smiles upon eye contact, soft laughs at little quirks. Thinking of slightly chapped, languid lips against his own, gentle like the brush of fingers on something so invaluably precious and irreplaceable, the feel of coarse hair twisting in his hands and just the comfort of a body pressed to his to block the chill of night air made something warm build in his chest and spread to his cheeks.

It wasn’t so nice a memory to think about when his beau was a mere twelve years old to his twenty-eight however.

Madara set his bowl down carefully. “Does it bother you?”

“Hm?” Tobirama wasn’t used to the other man, boy, being so pensive. He put his scroll down and met Madara’s eyes, concerned.

“Does it bother you to be with me?” Madara clarified, clearing his throat as he sat up straight. “I know with our past, the rumors, and our temperaments— they don’t exactly make for an ideal relationship but…”

Tobirama interrupted. “But yet I have not rejected you or your gifts,” he frowned. “Madara, my only problem before was that— well, I had wanted to keep things private for a bit and have time for us before Anija started planning a wedding and now, well you’re a child now,” he scrunched his nose in disgust, giving Madara a pointed look when the boy stared at him with a fondness much too heady and mature for his age. “It’s best not to think of my attraction to you given the circumstances.”

Madara flushed, looking away quickly. “Ah right.” He paused for a long moment before a cheeky grin pulled at his lips. “I suppose I won’t be allowed to sleep in your room then?”

Tobirama scowled, throwing cold tea into Madara’s face, relishing, privately, the crack of the boy’s voice, so much more high pitched than how Tobirama knew it to be.

———————————————————

“You can’t do that Shouta,” Tobirama hissed between gritted teeth. It was only the second day and he was ready to throw Madara, now going by Shouta, into the deepest, roughest river he could find.

Drawing a deep breath to calm himself, he willed water from the air to douse the flames engulfing the now terrified shopkeeper’s stall.

“He was flirting—” Madara bristled, crossing his arms. “He deserved it!”

Tobirama huffed, apologizing quickly to the shopkeeper and pulling Madara away. “He asked where I got my kimono—”

“Because he was admiring the way it fits you!”

Tobirama cringed. Madara’s voice as an adult never, not once no matter how much he was yelling, ever got so shrill. He would need to invest in earplugs at this rate. Glancing around discreetly, he shoved Madara around the corner, away from prying eyes and dropped to a crouch so they could talk face to face.

“Because he liked the fabric and wanted some pieces made for his daughter! You are completely insufferable, even as a child!” Tobirama snapped.

“I’m protecting your virtue! Hashirama said you never realized when people were interested. And that shopkeeper was interested. I know he was!” Madara protested angrily, before turning away and crossing his arms, grumbling curses under his breath.

Rubbing at his nose— it was a wonder the shape hadn’t changed after all the times his frustration had him irritating it— he sighed explosively before swallowing a quick, calming breath. Younger Madara lacked maturity and sense apparently so Tobirama needed to gain patience.

“Madara, you trust me, correct?” he asked softly.

Madara turned back to him curiously. “Of course.”

“So why would anyone showing interest in me be a reason to get so angry unless you thought I would leave my courtship with you for them? That is a lack of trust towards me Madara,” Tobirama explained. He’d seen too many people treat their partners in such a manner and he detested it. He wanted to be able to be himself without worrying how others would perceive him— he had lived much too long with others in mind.

Madara fiddled at the braided bangs Tobirama had put his hair into, pinky finger touching his lip. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” he whispered. “I just…don’t like it.”

Tobirama smiled softly. Madara, no matter his age, was always much too protective. He couldn’t fault him though. Not now.

“Let’s go, I have to get some shopping done. I think you already finished all the food I had in the house.”

Madara blushed fiercely, ducking his head so his hair fell in front of his face though he still took Tobirama’s hand in his.

“You said I could have whatever I wanted!” Madara’s free hand was back by his lips again.

“Ah right. Whatever, everything. I see how you could get the words confused,” Tobirama ribbed gently, easily pushing down Madara’s hand so the boy wouldn’t bite his nails. “That’s a bad habit, don’t do that.”

As they passed the still horrified shopkeeper, Madara stood upright, pout replaced with a haughty sneer. “You talking to him won’t change anything. He’s mine.”

Tobirama flushed, letting out an awkward laugh as the other villagers eyed him in curious amusement.

“New student,” he grimaced through an explanation. “You know how they are.”

“We know how they are with you Tobirama-sama!” Someone called out, drawing more chuckles from the crowd.

“He’s so cute!” A lady smiled, gently patting Madara’s head as she passed by. “If only people closer to our age were like this, hmm, Tobirama-sama?”

Madara preened under the attention, tugging Tobirama closer and intertwining their fingers, much to the growing entertainment of the entire marketplace. Tobirama thanked every kami for his happuri, casually activating the seal on the side to cool his flaming skin.

If he let Hiruzen test his monkey summon on Madara later that day, no one would have to know (something that was more terrifying without the ability to use his sharingan anymore, having been sent back to an age where he did not have them).

Not that that stopped Madara from yelling at anyone that showed a smidgeon of too much interest in Tobirama to “get their own boyfriend”.  ———————————————————

“Madara, you needn’t carry everything,” Tobirama sighed, watching fondly as the boy shifted the basket and bags about in his arms, stumbling along as they made their way back to Tobirama’s home. “I am perfectly capable of carrying my own groceries.”

It was only the fourth day of Madara’s stay and they’d run out of groceries again. Especially the few sweets he had bought just for Madara. Those were gone within moments.

Madara squawked suddenly, one leg tripping over the other, and went sprawling to the ground. With a quick shunshin, Tobirama dropped a scroll onto the dirt to catch all the groceries, letting his free hand shoot out to grab Madara and pull him upright. Straightening the young boy’s collar, he snatched up the now rolled scroll and tucked it into his pocket.

“Like I said, perfectly capable of carrying my groceries,” he drawled. Catching sight of Madara’s embarrassed pout— and oh, he made that exact expression as an adult too!— hair moving forward to hide his face again, Tobirama pushed the unruly strands back with an indulgent smile. “How about we get some dango?”

The word koibito hovered on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back. He was getting rather impatient waiting on this jutsu to let up.

He ignored the flicker of ire and almost-sadness, grinning as Madara’s face lit up. If anything, he was given quite the ideal opportunity to know his suitor. He could enjoy it while it lasted.

———————————————————

“Save me,” Mito snarled as soon as he and Madara stepped through the door. Her face was splotchy and she seemed less composed than ever. “Before I kill your brother.”

Tobirama blinked, eyes searching, landing on his brother sat in the corner and facing the wall. “Mito-nee—”

“Because Hashirama doesn’t realize being in his childhood body doesn’t mean he can act like a child. He keeps making messes and being too loud and, Hashirama if I hear you wailing one more time—”

“Breathe Aneue,” Tobirama held his hands up placatingly.

Mito heaved a breath, pushing her hair behind her ear before resting her hands on her belly. Her eyes were watering when she looked back at Tobirama. “We need to work on the jutsu Tobirama. I can't— with the Hokage duties and watching Hashirama and feeling sick all the time—”

Tobirama nodded. “Go sit, Aneue. Madara—”

“I can make you some tea, Mito-hime,” the boy said, bowing quickly and heading to the kitchen. “Ginger maybe? Or chamomile?”

Mito stared at him in wonderment. “How—I thought he’d be like Hashirama. I was sure of it. Has he been well-behaved this entire week?”

Tobirama smiled sheepishly. “More or less.” He frowned, sending a hard look to the boy all but wilted over himself. “Has Anija been giving you a lot of trouble?”

“Not really—” she glanced at the boy. “Hashirama, can you be a dear and help Madara in the kitchen please?”

Hashirama sprang from his seat, wiping his eyes and nodding hurriedly. “Of course Mito-!”

The rest of the sentence was lost as he scurried away.

“I just need my husband, Tobirama. Not this child who can’t keep his hands off my belly or food in his mouth. I— he’s not even being bad! Not really, just—”

“Overwhelming?”

Mito gave a small nod, looking horribly miserable.

“He was like that as a child. He only learned more restraint as an adult when he realized he kept accidentally hurting others in his enthusiasm,” Tobirama rolled his eyes, heart feeling a little too fond given the grievances his brother had put him through. Once, Hashirama had fractured his ribs with a hug. He’d hoped, however, that Hashirama would not fall back on childhood habits.

He should’ve seen it though— Madara had after all. The flailing, the quirky habits, threatening with fire— wait no, he did that as an adult— but everything else was so painstakingly innocent. Tobirama should’ve really kept a closer watch on Hashirama.

“I’ve been working on the jutsu, a little while longer and I believe I will be able to undo everything,” he reassured.

Mito sighed in relief, pulling Tobirama into a hug as best as she could around the swell of her stomach. Tobirama let her hold onto him for a few long moments, talking softly of the progress he made with the seals and making note of her suggestions, before coaxing her into the kitchen to eat.

And let Mito freeze, hiding his smile at her surprise. Dishes were neatly laid across the table, a cup of steaming tea covered with a small plate and placed by Mito’s seat. Madara grinned at them from beside the stove, turning at a pot.

“I’m making ramen! I know it’s nothing fancy but you seemed stressed and tired so I thought you might want something easier to eat so you can go rest sooner.”

Mito blinked. Settled herself into her seat and took a sip of her tea, humming appreciatively. “I didn’t even remember having those spices.”

“You didn’t,” Madara frowned. “I don’t know what the hell you two are eating but without these,” he gestured to the various small bottles he had set on the counter, “it can’t be anything good. I sent Hashi to Tobi’s. I made him buy these earlier.”

Hashirama grinned, swinging his feet from where he sat atop the counter. “See! I helped! I even set the table!”

He looked at Mito hopefully and she smiled. “Thank you Hashirama. Thank you Madara.”

Both boys beamed proudly though Madara quickly ducked behind his hair, adorably bashful. “It’s very simple. I hope you find it as pleasing as the effort.”

Mito smiled encouragingly, taking the pot from Madara and helping share it into the bowls. “I am certain it is delightful Madara.”

Madara blushed a bit brighter, settling quickly in front of his own bowl.

“Itadakimasu!”

Tobirama grinned, making sure to limit his own portion as he watched his brother’s and sister-in-law’s eyes open with surprise, noises of appreciation slipping past their lips as they dug in with a little more vigor than would be polite. Mito and Hashirama were sure to want seconds. Maybe even thirds.

Madara’s eyes darted to Tobirama’s bowl and he looked up with confusion, eyes silently asking if Tobirama were okay. Smiling gently, Tobirama glanced at their other two companions before dropping Madara a wink.

It was okay. He’d get Madara to cook for him later.

———————————————————

“I uh want to go look for berries at the river! From over there!” Madara called out awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other.

Hashirama looked up from the berries he and Tobirama were picking. He looked bemused for all of two seconds before his lips spread in a wicked grin that he hid behind his basket. “Okay!”

Tobirama, too busy separating the berries (and perhaps sneaking a few to eat) just nodded distractedly, only looking up when Hashirama stood up a few minutes later. “Anija?”

“Let’s go look at the river too, Tobi!”

Rolling his eyes, Tobirama let himself be pulled down the path Madara took, frowning when he heard something like a trickle of water when usually the river was silent during these times of low-tide. As they neared, he could just faintly make out Madara’s hair and, just before he could call out, watched Hashirama throw himself out of the bushes right behind the other boy.

Madara’s back went ramrod straight.

“Still can’t go when someone’s behind you?” Hashirama laughed loudly, finger pointing.

Madara whirled around just as Tobirama stepped through the bushes, face cherry red and mouth open to scream at Hashirama. Upon seeing Tobirama, he burned even redder, looking for all the world humiliated and betrayed as he hissed at Hashirama to shut up.

And suddenly so many other things made sense. Madara’s insistence to wait until Tobirama was far too distracted or not even in the house to use the restroom, mumbled excuses of needing privacy to go do something like clean or having to water plants of all things (“better for him to get the job done correctly”) keeping the bathroom door firmly locked even though Tobirama had not once known him to be body shy. Hell, just that morning Madara thought it appropriate to walk around the house with nothing but a small towel wrapped about his waist.

Madara was shy to use the bathroom around…anyone apparently. Tobirama bit back a laugh, frowning instead when he saw Madara hide more behind his hair, the tip of his nose reddening as he curled as much into himself as he could.

Tobirama could feel the headache coming. Why did he think agreeing to watch over both of them was a good idea? Oh right, so Mito could rest and Touka wouldn’t feel tempted to commit treason by killing one of the two brats. Especially given the fiasco that happened yesterday when Touka was in his shoes so he and Mito could work on the seal more.

He really was too kind for his own good.

“Anija!” Tobirama snapped. “Stop wasting time bothering Madara.”

“But Tobi—” Hashirama whined. “I—”

“We are going to pick berries at the river mouth—Madara already has this area covered.”

That would put them far off out each other’s sight so Madara could have his privacy and still be close enough for Tobirama to come if anything were to happen. He dragged his brother away without another word, missing the besotted and grateful look Madara shot him.

It wasn’t too long until Madara joined them again, flicking his hands through a much too familiar sign and setting the edge of Hashirama’s clothing on fire. Shrieking, Hashirama took off upstream before Tobirama could douse him with water, passing the place Madara had been and diving beneath the river surface.

“I suppose that was fair,” Tobirama mused. “I don’t think he got hurt at least.”

Madara scuffed the ground with his shoe, voice soft when he responded.  “Yeah.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. While I’m certainly surprised your bladder cooperated with your discomfort in quite the opposite manner than I would have expected—”

The boy flushed deeper. “No! I um yeah that’s odd but I um, I actually have something for you!”

“Oh?” Tobirama raised a brow. “Did you get something you were with Touka?”

Madara shook his head, determinedly looking at his shoes. “No I, I meant to give this to you earlier but then,” he waved his hand about awkwardly. “-all of this happened instead.”

Tobirama squinted, nose wrinkled. “Before you do that, did you wash your hands?”

The Uchiha squawked. “Of course I did! I’m not your brother! Stupid Senju—!” He shoved a small box in Tobirama’s hands as he continued his tirade against the Senju Clan.

Ignoring him— Tobirama had gotten quite good at that even before they began courting— he opened the box carefully and stilled. Inside was a small chain with a circular tanzanite pendant, a silver dragon figurine curled around one edge, its tail curling up to connect the pendant to the chain, and a silver leopard figurine stretched along the opposite edge. Their eyes were little red gems, pyrope, and almost exactly the shape and shade of his eyes. The only difference was the trace of black cutting through the red, carving Madara’s mangekyou into the dragon’s eyes.

Tobirama felt his breath catch.

“Madara—”

“You like both those animals! And, and you said I'm— that having me around is like having you’re own personal dragon so I…” his voice fell to little over a whisper. “I had that made for you. So it’s like I’m always around, like we’re always together.”

And now Tobirama’s eyes were watering, happy tears, and wasn’t that an idea. After so much grief, after never once even humoring such an absurdity as crying happily like his brother, Tobirama was well on the verge of doing the same.

Falling to his knees, he pulled the Uchiha into his arms, habit leading him to tuck his face against Madara’s hair. “I find myself really wishing you weren’t a child right now.”

Madara stroked a hand through Tobi’s hair, returning the hug tightly with a disgruntled pout. “Me too. This is fucking annoying. I want to kiss your pretty face, damn. Why’s that so much to ask for?”

“What!”

Hashirama stood gaping behind them, horror and anger twisting his features. “You’re dating my brother?”

“Anija—” Tobirama sighed, hand going right for the bridge of his nose.

“No!” Hashirama yelled, stomping his foot, childishly if not for the Mokuton poking through the dirt. “No, you don’t get to say anything! You were supposed to tell me before— don’t bother explaining or, or giving excuses now! I forbid it!”

Tobirama reeled back in shock. Not once, not even in the worse of Hashirama’s anger, had he ever tried to silence Tobirama.

“What?" Madara growled. "You what?”

Hashirama snarled. “I forbid you from dating my brother.”

The plants and grass were growing, leaves and stems thickening, hardening, and coiling up towards Madara.

“You can’t do that!”

“I can! And I will! I know you! I know your habits—”

“My habits?”

“All that damn time— you can’t handle a long-term relationship! And I’m not letting you use my brother, you backstabbing—” Hashirama was shaking with rage. “You, you bastard!”

With a yell, he lunged towards Madara recklessly only to be thrown over the Uchiha’s shoulder. Madara kneeled onto Hashirama’s chest, wrapping a hand around his throat, body also trembling with fury.

Tobirama moved to separate them, hands grabbing at Madara’s shoulders.

“I love him!” Madara yelled. “I love him! And you don’t get a damn say in any of it!”

Hashirama stopped clawing at Madara’s hands and Tobirama’s own hands went slack. Madara spun to look at him, sharingan burning in his eyes. Something like desperation seemed to spin in the commas.

“You hear me? I love you.”

Perhaps with the best timing ever, the air filled with smoke, startling them all apart. Tobirama covered his eyes as a bright light danced between the wisps and tossed the scroll he’d kept packed with Hashirama’s and Madara’s clothes into the fog, right at the red eyes looking back at him. When it dissipated, a Madara, an adult Madara (thankfully somewhst properly dressed) was standing there, sharingan still spinning in his eyes as he stared at Tobirama. No words passed before the two men pressed their lips together, hands tangling in each other’s hair. Something wet trickled down their cheeks and Tobirama couldn’t tell if the tears were coming from his eyes or Madara’s.

“I love you, I love you,” Madara whispered between kisses. And Tobirama nodded as of to answer some unspoken question.

“You love him?” Hashirama whispered, eyes flooding with tears. He tugged a haori over his shoulders. “You love my baby brother? You’re not just— Oh. Oh Madara I thought you were— oh I’m so happy!”

They weren’t paying attention to Hashirama’s babbling though, too transfixed and overly emotional at the admission of a confession they had been denying themselves.

“I’ve missed you,” Tobirama murmured, pressing his forehead against Madara’s. “Don’t ever go in my lab without me again.”

Madara laughed shakily. “Never. I’m never going anywhere without you ever again." 

———————————————————

Omake:

Hashirama wailed, squirming against the chains and seals in vain to get away as Madara used his kama to shear his long brown locks down to the base of his scalp.

"I told you I’d chop your hair off, bastard!” Madara cackled. “Now stay still before I accidentally take your head off!”

“I can’t believe you disguised yourself as Mito!” Hashirama sobbed. “I can’t believe she and Tobirama helped you! Traitors!”

Madara just laughed louder and continued hacking at Hashirama’s hair.