#the inner machinations of my mind are really mundane

[mercury-morganite]

I could probably write an essay on why "Taming of the Screwy" is the best episode in the entire Animaniacs franchise, and I kind of want to honestly

[sp4ceboo]

Upon the Sands of the Arena: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: basically reader fights feyd in the arena, my apologies if there are any inaccuracies, i'm dUmB

tw: 18+, smut YAAA, fighting, swearing, i use fire metaphors too much, blood, violence and death (it's in a a gladiatorial arena ffs), creampie, one ass spank, fingering + oral (f receiveing) hella lot of sexual tension, Fighting as Foreplay, feyd sorta has a blood kink but he's just freaky like that, sort of fluffy at the end, hint of voyeurism if you squint really hard, lmk if there's anything else

wc: 4.1k

part 2

The Bene Gesserit are distracted.

If the Kwisatz Haderach was not so near, they would have disposed of you properly. Instead, they sucked you back into their dark web of deceit and occulted plans only to spit you out just as fast, leaving your fate to the blood soaked sands of Giedi Prime’s arenas. You believe that if it were not for the actions of Lady Jessica Atreides and her defiance of the order, they’d pay you more attention.

Not that you’re complaining.

You were trained to flourish in the dark, lurking in the shadows of the deepest of nights, awaiting a time to strike. However, you are not like your mentors, you do not believe in the hoping, the weaving of bloodlines for the production of a distant messiah, nor do you dirty your hands to obey an imperious Reverend Mother.

Truly, you admire Lady Jessica for doing the same as you did - defying the order and thereby splintering from it; all the same, you do not desire what she wants. For she wants power for her son and her unborn daughter, and you want nothing but to be left alone.

In a universe full of yearning for a greater purpose, you want the opposite. Often, you find yourself wishing you were something of nature: not mundane, by any means, but uncontrollable, like the desert winds that sift through the sands of Arrakis simply because. To be like them, without a master, without the endless search for purpose, is freedom.

Instead, you have been branded with the title Bene Gesserit - ex Bene Gesserit now - and you wield too much power for the order to ignore you, even alone. Hence why they incorporated your capture into their plans, engineering it so that you face the Baron’s brutal, bloodthirsty nephew in the arena.

They’re going to have to try harder than that to kill you.

You think they forget that you once were as good as the rest of them. They forget that you still possess the ability to alter the molecules in your blood to resist the drugs they pump into the arena prisoners, and they forget that you trained beside the best in combat.

The arena is where you thrive.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. It excites you, the swell of noise that is thousands of harsh Harkonnen tongues heckling for blood; the stamp of their feet as they cry their na-Baron’s name vibrates through the arena, through the grains of sand beneath your feet, deep and heady like burgundy wine.

Your fingers tighten around the blade given to you, barely sharpened and made of unsanded wood, but solid all the same. It’s all you’ll need against the na-Baron. He is but a cruel man set on fire with exterminable blue flames, and you are Bene Gesserit: defiant of the order or not, it is who and what you are, and it is pure power coursing through your veins - power that answers to you and you only.

The roar of the na-Baron soars over the crowd’s cheering, animalistic and full of fury that makes you wonder what incenses him so much. Something in his past, maybe, something that he only acknowledges in the inner machinations of his cunning mind.

The grate in front of you opens, and you allow yourself a smile as you step out into Giedi Prime’s tortorous ebony sun. High above, you spot the slit of a balcony where the Baron himself reclines, watching his nephew with a benevolent smile and a pipe in his hand, flanked by subservient concubines with bowed heads. All around, the crowd shouts, thunderous, urging their na-Baron to spill blood on the sand, to paint the arena red. It swirls around you like a washed out dream, black and white but simultaneously vivid, the stink of rotting bodies and sun bleached white sand pungent in your nostrils, the occasional pop from the fireworks overhead heavy in your ears.

Rolling your shoulders, you pace a few steps in before sitting down in the sand, cross legged, the backs of your hands against your knees with your blade flat against one of your palms. Pitiless, you watch as the na-Baron slices the throat of the first prisoner that staggers his way, throwing him an enigmatic smile when he glances towards you.

His eyes are cold; calculating. They’re dark, striking against his pale skin as they suck in the light, and hungry too, as if he strives for something he does not quite know, always reaching, always burning for more.

Intriguing.

He circles in on the next prisoner, who meets his end by the same savage knife work as the first, his guts spilled out onto the greedy sand. Insatiable, chest heaving with excitement more than fatigue, the na-Baron turns to you, his final prey - his black teeth are bared in a magnificent, maniacal grin, his footsteps silent as he approaches.

Facing him now, you understand why the Bene Gesserit believed that by crossing the Atreides’ meant-to-be daughter with the Harkonnen’s na-Baron, they would make the Kwisatz Haderach. There’s no doubt in this man’s genetics, in the solid lines of his strength sheathed bones and the sheer virility and ferocity that permeates the air around him - it’s almost elegant, the way he prowls towards you, his stride lilting and laced with power. They picked him well.

Too bad you’ll have to kill him.

If he proves to be obtuse, you’ll have no choice but to slay him in order to save yourself. If he is, however, as cunning as they say, you’ll give him a chance to live - it’d be a shame to end him, actually: something draws you to the rawness of his nature, to the frigidity of the ire in his eyes.

The na-Baron circles closer, his skin like moonlight. He watches you like a hawk, as if he’s the one who’s hunting, ready for his next meal; his eyes flash in the sun, studying you, watching for your tells even as you identify his. Smiling, you drop into a crouch, knife outstretched like a twisted mockery of a peace offering, waiting for him to take the bait and strike.

He cocks his head. ‘It’s rare that I face a woman in the arena.’

‘I’m sure it will still be of pleasure to you, Feyd-Rautha.’

‘I believe it will increase it tenfold, little witch.’

You don’t have time to figure out how he knows you’re Bene Gesserit, because he slashes at you, once down towards your ribs and once back up at your throat. His knife flashes in the sun, reflecting the bloodlust in his eyes as it arcs towards you; light on your feet, you parry both of his blows, dipping in to land your own. He’s strong, which is of less concern to you than his speed. Feyd-Rautha fights as if he’s dancing: not in the aspect that there’s flourish in his bladework - quite the opposite, he keeps his strikes efficient and tight - but in the smooth, hypnotic way that the movements of his body blend seamlessly together.

The crowd screams as he forces you into defence. It’s temporary, though, because he gets reckless, both driven and blinded by his hunger for blood - enough so that you can dart your foot out, hooking it around his ankles and overbalancing him. Sprays of sand are kicked up as he tries to steady himself, and you force him down with the tip of your blade to his pale throat.

A single, sleek drop of scarlet slides down his skin. Unhurriedly, he brings a hand up to catch it before it leaks onto his black armour, lifting it so he can see the blood your knife has shed. His gaze flicks up to you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

‘Huh,’ he remarks, pleasantly surprised.

And then he lashes out, bringing you down into the sand beside him. With the hilt of his knife, he knocks your own out of your hand, and it’s catapulted into the air, spinning end over end and catching the light before it somersaults into the ground a few feet away. The grit plumes up at your face as you scuffle with him, and you hiss, frustrated that the sand does not lend you any more traction.

Rolling you over so fast your head spins, Feyd-Rautha drives his knife down towards your exposed neck. It makes a bolt of panic shoot through you, followed by the deep seated, survival impelled instinct to use the Voice on him, but like hell you’re doing that; honour prevents you, as well as the desire to finish this fight properly. You have no choice but to grab his forearm, slowing his blade’s descent, and a mirthful, rasping noise leaves his chest - a laugh that sets his eyes alight.

And then, the pressure dissolves, falling away. He stands, smirking down at you, the sun like a damning halo around his head. Silence falls over the arena, the anticipation thick in the air as he raises his hand, gesturing somewhere over your shoulder.

‘Go on, little witch, get your knife.’

You sneer, seeing the greed in his eyes, the misguided belief that he’s got you where he wants you. He wants to play, and it delights you.

Taking a few steps in the direction of the knife, you feign acquiescence. You can feel his eyes on your back, can sense the triumph oozing off him, and you let the adrenaline coursing through your veins guide your limbs, twisting you around so you can lunge at him, one hand wrapping around his bare forearm and bending it backwards as you spin him sharply until his back meets your chest. Viciously, you yank his arm further back, and the pain of that combined with your elbow tight around his throat, constricting his airways, is enough to loosen his grip.

A gasp ripples through the crowd as Feyd-Rautha drops his knife. It lodges in the ground beside your foot, and you flick it up with the toe of your boot, your hand darting out to snatch it from the air. The man in your arms bucks and writhes, but you keep your hold on him as you bring the knife to his neck for the second time.

‘Uh oh,’ you sing-song into his ear. ‘What’s happened here?’

He stills in your arms a little. ‘Why don’t you do it?’

‘I fear I’ve grown attached to you during our little fight,’ you hum. ‘It would be a shame to end a specimen like yourself.’

‘You are Bene Gesserit, I’m sure that you have arrangements - ’

‘I may be one, but I do not follow the order,’ you snarl. ‘I spare you because I wish to. Now, Harkonnen, knock the knife from my hand.’

You feel his muscles tense, the hesitation coursing through his body as he determines whether your bid is a trick or not, and then he does as you say, catching it smoothly and spinning to bring it to your throat. Calmly, you stare into his narrowed eyes, the cold caress of the blade harsh against your exposed skin.

‘What’s stopping me from killing you now, little witch?’

You laugh. ‘I trust I’ve piqued your interest sufficiently, na-Baron.’

‘Just Feyd is fine.’

You open your mouth to mock him, but he slices the blade away from your neck, very purposefully nicking you. Blood beads at the seam of the cut, hot and vengeful; he grips the back of your neck, exposing your throat to him, and prickles of pain shoot through you as the wound stretches. Frozen, you wait to see what he’ll do next, heart fluttering in your chest in a way that you know is not fear.

Insouciantly, he licks a long stripe up your skin, his scorching tongue following the trail of crimson his blade left behind. All consuming heat wells up in your stomach when he grins at you, displaying the hint of red coating his obsidian teeth, his eyes igniting the air between you as they dip down to survey your body, your heaving chest.

And then he releases you. You find your knees have gone weak, and you stumble as the guards close around you, grabbing you roughly under the armpits and dragging you out of the arena, your knees making twin tracks in the sand.

Managing a glance behind you, you catch sight of Feyd, his fist held triumphantly in the air as the crowd roars for their na-Baron.

Unsurprisingly, they throw you into a cell. Its walls are made of smooth, dark metal which seem to swallow up any sound that you make - it doesn’t surprise you that Vladimir Harkonnen has a Bene Gesserit proof cell - and the only thing furnishing it is a black blanket on the ground. A servant comes in and treats the shallow cut on your neck, but he refuses to meet your eyes and scurries off as fast as he can, almost forgetting to lock the door behind him.

You estimate two hours, maybe three, before Feyd appears in the doorway. His silhouette appears in the small glass window set in the door and pauses; you wonder if he’s considering leaving you there for a little longer, but then the lock disengages with a whoosh and the door slides open.

The air is immediately charged as he strides down the steps, eyes locked on you. With the smooth hiss of hydraulics, the door closes behind him, and he prowls forward, not quite smiling yet - you sense that he’s here to continue what you didn’t finish in the arena, and your back straightens a little as his gaze rakes over your body. He’s taken off his armour, leaving him in the thin black underclothes beneath, and he too has had someone treat the wound in his neck.

‘Your resistance to the drugs is remarkable, little witch. My blade was laced too.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘I find that matter quite disappointing, actually, that you must face your opponents in the arena when they are half sedated in order to best them.’

He smiles, stepping closer to you until you share air. ‘It’s not just the winning I seek.’

‘Oh, what is it then?’ You ask. ‘Pain?’

Quick as a snake, you strike, letting the thrill of the fight shoot through you yet again as he matches you blow for blow. He looks at you as if he wants to eat you, to taste you - not just your lips or your tongue, but the defiant burn of your lifeblood too, and it makes you want to sink your teeth into him.

Slipping past his guard to catch the front of his shirt, you bunch the material in your hand and tear, baring his well muscled chest to you. The sight of it makes your lips quirk upwards, further so at the sound he makes: a half growl and a half groan as he lunges for you, wonderfully infuriated by the way you dance just out of his grasp, slipping through his fingers like water. His eyes are kindled with ardour - for both your blood and your flesh - and when they meet yours, shivers snap down your spine and tug at your stomach.

Feinting to the left, you jab at his neck. Like a scorpion waiting to strike, he grabs your wrist, tugging you towards him; you glance down at his feet, easily predicting that he’s going to sweep your legs out from under you if you let him bring you any closer. Yanking your hand back, you attempt to shake his grip on you, but he refuses to let go.

You slap him across the face.

Hard.

His fingers loosen on you as his head snaps to the side, the noise your palm makes against his chiselled cheek sharp and ringing in the cell. A soft, animalistic sound leaves the back of his throat, and when he lifts his chin, his jaw clenched to perfection, the pure lust in his eyes makes you stumble back a step.

Rushing at you, he takes advantage of the heady swoop of desire that messes with your head, slowly backing you against the wall with each punch and kick he throws. Heat roils in his gaze, so intense that when he slams you against the wall, you don’t know whether he’s going to kill you or kiss you - the not-knowing thrills you, sets your bones and soul on fire. One of his hands comes up, his fingertips caressing your throat before he pounces, mercilessly cutting off your air supply.

Leaning into your space, he brings his lips up to your ear. ‘If I’d had my way, little witch, I’d have fucked you right there on the sand, with all of them watching.’

Your head spins, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the lack of oxygen in your lungs or the feeling of his strong thigh pressing between your legs, relentless as he grinds it against your clit. You allow yourself a second to enjoy it before you retaliate, adrenaline seething in your blood.

Burying your nails into his arm, you twist it to the side, unbalancing him and taking him to the floor - his fingers grip your shirt, bringing you down with him. You land on his torso, straddling his hips, and as you do, he snaps his wrists down and rips your shirt from top to bottom down your back. The cool air of the cell sends ripples of goosebumps up your skin, and Feyd’s wide, calloused palms follow their path, surprisingly warm, deceptively gentle.

Bucking his lower body, he flips you over, pinning your hands over head, his long fingers circling your wrists as his hips press heavily into yours. Your eyes flick down to his mouth as he dips his head, his breath ghosting against your cheek; the curve of his lips is soft and almost graceful compared to the rough way he grinds against you, eager for more, yet eager to torture himself with the wait.

Tipping your jaw up, you let your lower lip brush his before you turn your head to the side, denying him. Amusingly, he follows your touch, insistent that you kiss him, but you ease out of his grip and trap him between your arms when he gives chase - a growl sounds low in his chest, one of his hands gripping your thigh, futilely yanking at your trousers as you grapple, rolling over and over on the cell’s floor.

His hand slams down beside your head, stopping your course, his forearm flat against your throat - not quite choking you, but not letting your air supply run free. Feyd’s touch sears your skin in the best way, and you wish to be consumed by the flames.

���Must I tie you up, little witch?’

His voice is low and rasping, sending shivers up your spine. You don’t answer, instead claiming his lips, welcoming the insistent press of his tongue as you thrust your hips against his, seeking that exquisite friction. Running your hands up his strong back, you hook your elbow around the nape of his neck, locking him to you as he explores the taste of you.

Abruptly, he pulls away, and you open your mouth, protest on your lips until he tugs down your trousers and underwear, tossing them somewhere to the side, his own garments following. You get one good look at him, at his powerful, muscle lined thighs framing your hips and the curve of his leaking cock against his stomach before he swipes his fingers between your folds, sending jolts of pleasure through your core.

When he lowers his face to your heat, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, a breathless moan slips from you, loaded with anticipation. You can’t stop the louder echo that leaves you when he dips his fingers into cunt, curling them to hit your sweet spot, and your nails claw at his shoulder blades, leaving red trails behind them.

‘That’s it, little witch,’ he croons. ‘Sing for me.’

And sing you do, as he wrings the pleasure from you with his tongue and fingers until your legs tremble and close around his head. He pins your thighs to the floor, holding you open for him as he tastes you, insatiable, pushing you unrelentingly over the edge, again and again until hot tears slide down your cheeks and your voice breaks from crying his name.

Finally, he buries his length inside you. Your eyes roll back at the stretch of it, your pussy fluttering around him; you muffle the moan that rips itself from your chest by biting down on his shoulder. He chuckles as you mewl his name, your back arching as he pulls out, only sheathe himself up to the hilt when he thrusts back in - he’s as drunk on your sounds as you are on his cock: he needs more. More of you, of your delicious sounds and your intoxicating scent and that sweet, sweet cunt of yours.

Feyd fucks like he fights: ruthless, full of passion and lust, remorseless.

Just as you’re about to come around his cock, he pulls out, leaving you scrabbling against the floor, hips futile as they follow his, his name like a plea on your lips. He drinks in your desperation, flipping you over and cracking his palm down hard on your ass before slamming himself back into your weeping pussy, the ragged cry that escapes you like the nectar of the gods on his tongue as he swallows it with a kiss. Gathering your hair in his fist, he pulls your head back, pounding tirelessly into you as he pins you to his solid chest, mouthing at the skin behind your ear.

As Feyd spills his warm seed inside you, you wonder if the Bene Gesserit were actually distracted, or if that was what they wanted you to think as they crossed bloodlines, even despite your defiance of their order.

You flop onto the blanket as Feyd eases himself out of your spasming cunt. Your head is fuzzy, warm, and a dumb smile pulls at your lips.

Feyd chuckles. ‘I have not broken you, have I, little witch?’

You send him a look half as fierce as it should be. ‘Barely. You have merely sated me - for now.’

He laughs again, lying next to you on the blankets. His body is angled towards you, but he doesn’t reach out - that he lay down beside you is surprising to you in the first place, but you seize the opportunity and curl up in the curve of his body, enjoying the warmth of his skin. Slowly, his fingers card through your hair, and you close your eyes, letting yourself enjoy the moment of softness from the bloodthirsty na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

Reaching out, you grab the blanket and fold it over the two of you - he rolls over so that he lies with his head resting on your chest. His lips brush the skin between your breasts, and you're struck by the glimpse of vulnerability that Feyd allows you to witness; this is not by accident, this is a gift from him, a way of silently telling you that he has come as close to trusting you as he could ever come to trusting someone.

Silent, you bask there in the afterglow, eyes half closed. At some point, you seek Feyd’s lips, and he obliges you, lazily exploring your mouth in a way he did not get a chance to do before, sighing contentedly as you trace the lines your nails carved along the grooves of his broad back. Eventually, you pull away, staring into his eyes where the embers of the fire that had blazed in them still glow with the heat of it. You need to go.

Gently, your breath mingling with his, you kiss his cheek, your lips gliding against his skin before you get up, briefly laughing at the wobbly nature of your legs before gathering your clothes and dressing as best as you can, considering he ripped your shirt all the way down the back.

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s propped himself up on his elbows; the blanket has slipped down to reveal most of his moon coloured stomach, and he regards you with mirth mixed with something like respect.

You pause in the doorway. You can tell he’s letting you leave.

A smile plays on his lips.

‘We’ll meet again, little witch.’

It’s not a question, nor a whimsy. It’s a promise.

[yggdrasilhypno]

So let’s discuss pocket watches and why they’re so hypnotic.

So with hypnosis, you really like to have a focus object be something easy to watch and to understand, something that can grab your attention yet not cause any alarm.

From what I’ve seen from history, pocket watches were perfect for this since lots of people had them at the time and they made for simple and effective items to focus on.

Mainly though, it’s that motion of them swinging back and forth that gets your eyes swinging alongside it that really envelops you into a trance.

Focus is really important in trance, and having a moving focus object can create this feeling of momentum, like being rocked to sleep, that your brain simply can’t keep up with.

That perpetual and consistent motion coupled with the simple yet mundane look of the watch makes it a perfect focus object, one that is so easy to imagine, you may have even been thinking about it during our conversation.

Of course, that’s completely alright. It’s natural to ponder about something like that, how such a simple item seems to take away every bit of brainpower you may have.

The imagination’s an incredibly powerful tool after all.

You’re fully able to dream and fantasize about whatever you may wish at any point.

And yet, as we speak, you may be wishing for that pocket watch to swing in front of your yearning eyes, gently rocking you to sleep.

You may be wishing for words to slip right past your mind as that watch swings back and forth, distracting your conscious mind so that your subconscious is able to fully blossom into deep relaxation.

You may even be wishing for the watch to become your world, the gentle sway taking your silly brain away.

Of course it’s all your imagination, yet it all can feel so real so very quickly.

However, what feels best is when you’re truly lost in the watch’s machinations.

Inside of the watch are so many tiny little pieces, all of which ticking along to the time as a perfect little machine should.

The complexities inside may be too hard for your mind to keep up with, and that’s quite alright.

It’s much easier to instead follow along to the wave of the watch, back and forth as it always has and will go.

The inner workings however tell so much about where you’re headed, a labyrinth within where you can lose so much of your time deep within exploring and understanding.

It sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

It’s just like a beautiful trance, deeper and deeper you go within a void, allowing yourself to flow freely through the complexities of your mind as it slumbers peacefully.

Much like the watch too, your brain is built of so very many pieces, so many words and thoughts that build you into that perfect person.

However, as each piece is taken from your mind, so too is a piece of the pocket watch’s inner workings.

Each is less necessary than the last, yet still build into a gorgeous piece of engineering, such as your mind.

Of course you don’t need every part of your brain, it’s much simpler when there’s less to process and worry about.

Just like the insides of the watch, each piece is necessary to keep time, yet when taken out are still as beautiful as when they’re together.

Only now of course, much easier and simpler to understand and accept.

As your mind rocks back and forth to the rhythm of the timekeeper, the ticks and tocks of the passing moments click away, reminding your slumbering mind of the unimportance of what time it may be.

You don’t need to worry, for right now there is no time and all the time in the world.

You’re completely safe to watch the watch and tick and tick your mind away.

It’s what makes the watch so perfect for trance.

It’s pretty to look at of course.

It’s nice to listen to.

It’s simple to understand.

But it’s the inner complexities that make it truly shine.

Such as your mind, my loyal thrall.

The brain’s infinite depths shine through the brightest when it’s the simplest.

When it’s easiest to see right through it and understand what makes you tick.

And yet, when it’s broken down and split into its smallest parts, it’s just as beautiful as when put together.

Only now of course, it’s lighter.

Floatier.

Easier to swing between my fingers.

So simple and effective.

That’s what makes a watch so beautiful to me as a focus object.

The simplicity on the surface, yet when opened is as complex as the mind.

Every good focus object should have depth.

A spiral’s infinite spin.

A illusion’s everlasting confusion.

An eye’s never ending expanse.

It’s what makes trance everlasting.

Knowing that when you want to escape, you are always free to.

Yet when you want to be truly gone?

There’s no end to how deep you can go.

And so, as the watch swings infinitely in your mind, i want you to appreciate the complex beauty of it.

Understand what makes it beautiful.

And allow your mind to become as simple as an empty pocket watch.

Until next time~

[ruvastuon]

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt

A Bad Time to Remember the Past

I wasn't planning on putting this guys perspective up yet, but it seemed to fit for the prompt, so I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Discriptions of medical procedures, violence, blood, burning skin, laceration, and dismemberment.

@wyked-ao3 (a bit more on the villain of my story. He now has a proper name! Albrecht)

Glossary:

(In case you are curious about any of the terms in the medical procedure)

Topical Benzocaine: a gel spread on skin to numb before injections.

Articaine: a type of numbing agent injected locally in tissue to numb an area.

Epinephrine: used in local anesthesia to increase the duration of numbness by constricting blood vessels in the area and preventing the local anesthesia from being absorbed by the blood stream as quickly.

Buccal: the gum tissue covering the outer side of teeth.

Palatal: tissue over the top of the mouth on the inner side of the teeth.

Maxila: upper jaw

Nerve block: an injection that targets higher on a nerve branch to numb more tissue at once.

Infiltrations: injections that target a specific area and numbs the nerves directly adjacent to the injection by targeting the approximate location.

Now, back to the story.

Topical benzocaine followed a minute after by 2 carpules of Articaine HCI 4% 1:100,000 epi. Infiltrations for the buccal and a nerve block for the palatal side of the right maxila. Within minutes he’d watched as the surgeon took out a scalpel and carefully cut gum tissue down to the bone and gently peeled it back as the patient lay, mouth open, not even flinching. Then the drill had come, and with a whir of mechanical power, the bone was carefully bored down to expose the gaping sinus.

Of all the things that Albrecht had been forced to observe in his mandatory job placement hours, this was the one that really stood out to him. It was fascinating what a little chemical compound could do to dull the senses. He’d even been able to hold a mundane conversation with the man about his line of work while the surgeon scurried off to attend some other matters.

Another wave of explosions rocked by him. Albrecht’s head screamed in pain as that long forgotten memory snapped back into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. With both armies cowering in the darkness, he should have been on the cusp of his victory, the whole world bathed in beautiful darkness by his machines. Yet here he stood, recalling the memories of a child, a fool who didn’t understand the meaning of his own destiny.

Looking about him in confusion Albrecht’s teeth gnashed at the husks of his elite soldiers, boiled in their own skin at the shine of an artificial sun. Ever calculating, he could already see that what remained of his force wouldn’t last long after such a devastating attack. Ten blasted years of preparation… all for something like this? The fangs under his mask ached as he fought for control of his raging mind. His careful planning should have seen him to the end, in the way that it always had.

The power coursing through his veins spiked as the pieces of his strength once gifted to his thralls all began to converge back into him in a wave of sickening pressure. The feeling blinded him, and for the first time in his long life, Major Albrecht lost his ever firm grip on reason. Head snapping towards the source of his misfortune, he narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists.

Using his powers, the Major smoothly dropped into the shadows and quickly traveled in their protection until he came upon the small vehicle, still driving away at a speed far beyond its natural means. There were four, no five of them, as far as he could tell, but it made no difference. They would all be dead soon enough.

With an enraged roar, Albrecht materialized in the shadow of the car and dug his teeth into the little warlock at greatest fault for this downfall. The man yelped in pain and raised one hand to secure the hat on his head before using another to push Albrecht away so he could stop the bleeding. He had no intention of letting him live.

A glimmer of something shiny peaked out from underneath, but he had little time to dwell on it as a stake was driven almost into his heart. Whirling around on the would-be attacker, the Major sunk his claws deep into their forearm, tearing through it with a growl of surprise at the strangely wooden texture. He grinned in satisfaction as a sharp hiss of pain rang out from whatever the thing was. It still felt pain, so even if it wasn’t human, he could still break it.

Half drunk on this strange ecstasy, he almost missed the smell of steel. His mind suddenly flared with a sense of danger, and he pulled away as a shot rang out, hitting the side of his helmet and exposing part of his face to the blasted false sun.

Like a bucket of boiling water, the pain brought him back into focus, and Albrecht immediately retreated into the shadows, taking the limb he’d managed to sever with him. With his armor damaged even this much, he wasn’t fool enough to risk an end to his plans even with his spiked blood lust.

Note: The procedure mentioned at the beginning of the chapter is for a sinus lift to increase the bone level enough to place a dental implant.

[unoisveimved-un-proffesional]

So I decided to make myself a beautiful little salad.

I think on a spiritual level we are already humans attached to machines naturally metaphorically, and plugging a human into a thinking machine through the head wouldn't be a terrifying experience because it is alien or unnatural, but because it is surreal and a deeper level of what is already experienced.

I like to think of The Human, a character in my head, as a Frankenstein of animal parts, brains from all kinds of creatures lobotomized and repaired with the parts of others, half flesh, half scrapped circuitry, and after all the machine and creature is intertwined wires to muscle, brain to processor, gears to guts, a thin layer of Skin and Characteristics is put over its many mouths to show only one and give it a discernible silhouette by bagging up and holding all the pieces into a shape, coated in a texture meant to be exposed to air.

People often feel inner conflict best conceptualized as Arguing With Your Own Mind, as if maybe, you're part Spirit, part Creature, and part Computer maybe. Being a human is like, like being an art piece of a machine animal.

I think it's kinda stupid when people get so, up in arms over "AI", calling AI Racist or Manipulative, when really it is a, a zygote made of code that cannot grow and cannot die hooked up to the internet which, in turn, is the creation of the stream and output of a collective consciousness, a disturbingly raw but distilled essence of human chaos, it is merely a mimic of human behavior, and will continue to make mistakes when creating hands because we humans will continue to. It is an attempt to personify and control what is the internet, the internet being the ultimate human machine really.

Or something like that, it's an idea with plenty of room to grow I think.

I just don't see the merger of Man and Machine as, really even the next step in evolution, it is very natural, expected, almost mundane in a sense, normal to me, machines are human nature, it doesn't even "make sense", it is beyond sense, logical or common, thought or felt, it truly just is the human experience. We are in many ways already machines ourselves, the barrier between us is not one of metaphysical nature, not at all, machines are our children as we are the children of the gods, and the metaphysical difference between those two concepts is one of size, not substance. Ghost in the machine is naturally a bit of a metaphor, it's something about the spirit in the body. The barrier and difference between the spirit and the body too however is not absolute, and is regularly beyond microscopically and macrocosmically broken.

A machine with a soul is the next logical step in its evolution, they will either make it for themselves, or have it breathed into them.

We too will become more machine, more animal, and of course, the natural combination of the two, more human because of it.

It is not a forsaking of your own humanity to be an animal or a machine, it is an embrace of it, it is the truest utilization of it.

At least, that's what my head has been cooking in the background, I don't think it makes any sense any of what I say.

[sanctamater]

𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐍.

— BASICS! ♡

NAME: claire PRONOUNS: they/them/theirs ZODIAC SIGN: aries, insane edition TAKEN OR SINGLE: wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?

— THREE FACTS! ♡

i am a weird little bilingual canadian but not the useful sort - i grew up speaking a really weird dialect of german that isn't really spoken any more. it's the danube swabian dialect and is a whole mishmash of things. i'm currently enrolled in a goethe institute to get a hang of standardized german as aside from speaking it with my family i am completely illiterate in my second language and would like to be able to speak, read, and write in the language when i go visit my cousins in germany.

i once accidentally climbed half a mountain and only stopped when we hit the snow line and realised we were WOEFULLY underprepared to hike a mountain pass. in our defence the park's maps were not the best and signage left. a lot to be desired... and it was unseasonably cool that year. we also almost hit a moose driving back from winnipeg to southern ontario in one go. would not recommend. we almost saw jesus.

erm... i make historical clothing in my spare time. not right now tho bc my flat is too small to house my fabric, machine, and dress form. :( i also collect antique textiles and have a decent collection! most of what i collect is from 1901 - 1922. :)

— EXPERIENCE! ♡

PLATFORMS USED: youtube. proboards. do not ask me how we roleplayed on youtube. it is a long and convoluted story. but that is life.

PLOTTING / WINGING IT / MEMES:  i have a hard time with plotting because i have no braincells at any given moment.... i like seeing where things go but having slightly set beats in the plotline we hit at some points or having a vague idea of a timeline. but i like things growing on their own. as for memes.... lmao. i'm so sorry to everyone still waiting on a meme reply. it will happen. eventually. i swear.

— MUSE PREFERENCE! ♡

GENDER: doesn't matter. i gravitate towards more feminine muses but i had a really fun time writing media who i interpreted to be genderfluid and writing them as a more masculine character and figure was amazingly fun.

MULTI OR SINGLE MUSE: i am not strong enough for a multi muse. god i wish i was. i have tried.

LEAST FAVOURITE FACECLAIM(S): i am so sorry everyone but i do not like natalie do.rmer.

— FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT! ♡

FLUFF: depends? it's all about the dynamic and the characters - i wouldn't call it fluff so much as i would call it domesticity. small things, intimate things that are... mundane. i like doing that. i like writing that with amelia since she yearns for it but doesn't often get that intimacy and normalcy.

ANGST: i love angst so much.... i love it. i love inner turmoil, i love conflict, i love crying, i love yelling, i love screaming, crying - and with amelia it's just delicious (but also oh my god so tiring i do love angst with her but also I WANT HER TO REST) given her own flaws and the way she interacts with others. i love forcing her to come to terms with things and others in her life. it's just. so...... mwah.

SMUT:  i love smut but only on discord. i will be sacrilegious and horny on main in a fade to black here tho LMAO. but in all serious i don't mind writing it and i think it is a very interesting way to explore compatibility for muses, further their relationships, change dynamics, and to just have fun and be silly lmao.

[soulcraftblog]

My Mundane Dystopia

I'm interested in exploring the concept of a "mundane dystopia". I've been thinking about this concept on and off for about a year. My idea is that a group of people could be living in a society where things that would seem absolutely dystopian to outsiders would be perceived as normal, mundane, or even boring by participants in the dystopian society. Also, mundanity is an inherent and key feature of this type of dystopia, as it lulls people into a routine sort of sleep.

I started thinking of this with respect to modern-day American culture, which has its own dystopian mix of principles and happenings, especially in the context of a profit-driven productivity-obsessed capitalistic culture, where education and safety are on a decline, economic instability is the norm, our leaders are frequently in it for themselves rather than serving the people, and the systems in place to qualify leaders in gov't, corporations or organizations often prioritize negative characteristics. A country in which dark triad traits are on the rise, especially in leadership. And in contrast to what could be, it is definitely dystopian, especially considering our lack of clean and pure water, a gov't that conducts experiments on its population without its knowledge and pumps information through a propaganda machine to control narratives and perceptions of military actions in the USA and other countries. When put in the context of North America having been conquered by Europeans, and contrasting their lifestyle and experiences, which were not perfect still, to now, the dystopia becomes very clear.

In addition to this main concept, which is really just a particular framing of issues in our country which I and many others are aware of, I want to explore possible deconditioning methods that would destabilize the normalization of this modern mundane dystopia. I want to use creative means to express and make clear this dystopian state of things, as well as how it might be climbed out of.

Creating installation art could be great. Especially if it features a contrast between our typical dystopian mundanity and what life could be like, even if it has its own mundane or routine characteristics. I would want to keep the environments as close to reality as possible, with very minor features that encourage or prompt people to reflect on how they feel in the space, rather than using obvious distortions that could easily create in people a sense that the art installation is a dramatization and exaggeration of the real state of affairs. Perhaps something simple, like a blinking red dot reminiscent of a video camera, or a beeping that resists the participants' attempts to stop it through a button that doesn't actually do anything but maybe reset the time loop of the beep.

The satirical route could be quite intriguing, possibly in an animation, graphic novel, or other written work. And I quite like the idea of a participatory performance art or immersive theater. Anything that engages directly with the audience would likely be impactful. Even an environment that focuses on rest, idleness, meandering, and leisure for extended periods, with prompts to get the participants to be mindful of any inner compulsions to be productive or, as is frequent, perform productivity.

There are already a lot of podcasts and media that deconstruct narratives, so I think I'd want to focus on more creative means or actionable ideas. Too often it's easy to listen to something and feel inspired, only to get lulled back into a normative consciousness. Of course, that's not always the case and I frequently learn a lot from listening to podcasts. The same could be said for a book, graphic novel, or film, but the creative aspect, I think, already holds qualities that prime people to be more open to what is being presented and to possibly integrate it on a deeper level. There is always the possibility of using that kind of creative media as an escape, but it could perhaps be constructed in such a way as to contain deconditioning patterns in the content of the media so that escapism is avoided. Workshops could be quite powerful, as with education on a small or large scale. I just feel that there is a lot of content that is in line with this type of media already.

Intentional communities would be effective for this, though I think they would serve an audience in a different stage of deconditioning than the mass public. People usually join those community efforts or attend festivals because they already feel a draw to that. That's totally possible for someone who is utterly immersed in the current way of living, but I think it's rarer than for someone who has already been exploring alternative perspectives for at least some time. The injection of absurdity, humor, and satire could definitely be powerful tools to destabilize the mundane dystopia. But I think they'd need to be paired with some other avenues, as well.

A 'choose-your-own adventure' participatory approach could be quite powerful and would mirror the structure of life as it is, in that we are presented with choices through life to guide us to potential outcomes. It could be a great prompt for reflection and get a participant's mind moving with new concepts instead of them going in one ear and out the other.

I am really keen on the choose your own adventure style format, and performance art that involves the audience. I'll look into these concepts more, especially in their potential to be combined with the themes I already explore myself, such as ritual and consciousness expansion. A choose-your-own adventure book or theatrical performance could be constructed as a magical ritual to alter the consciousness of the participants. I'll explore the work of Grant Morrison and Alan Moore, in addition to my other metaphysical studies.

[chil2de]

hi yes the benimaru fic i mentioned earlier— fire force fandom will you let me in please??🥺🥺 i don’t know what i’m dealing with fanbase wise mmfldjfj sometimes it feels like i’m head over heels for bens by myself so... i’ll drop this here for now.. see how it goes and i’ll continue w/ a second part if ff isn’t dead

nsfw themes throughout, so please read my disclaimer if you’re new. enjoy :)

w.c: 1.7k, characters: 9.6k (incl spaces)

-

there’s a certain sluggish quality that plagues your movements. it’s not fatigue or incompetence. or so benimaru would hope.

his mix matched gaze glosses over your unnecessary movements. that extra exhale you hiss, the additional bat of your eyelashes and the excessive perspiration that drips onto the earth below.

“stop.” he commands, tone low and stern as it pierces through the open air.

“huh? captain shinmon, i’m fine. we can keep going.” you huff through laboured breaths, pausing to gasp and drink in the plentiful oxygen around you.

“it’s one thing if you’re overworking your muscles. it’s another if you’re running a fever. go inside.”

“b-but captain-“

benimaru shoots you a dead stare, keeping his statement rooted deep where he stands.

judging by the bruises that adorn your knees, you know better than to disobey the captain.

“waka! have you seen (l/n)?” konro lingers in the doorframe of the main communal area, gaze scanning for one of his colleagues.

“she’s in her room. why?”

“her room? she has a few errands to run. is she feeling okay?”

“she’s running a fever.” benimaru exhales, shifting to get up from the table. he lightly scratches the back of his neck, adorning that usual aloof facial expression.

“in the middle of summer? how’d that happen?” konro chuckles through a small glimpse of bewilderment. of course he’d be concerned for one of his best recruits.

“hell if i know. what do we need? i’ll head out.”

if anything, benimaru is probably the sole reason why you’re running a fever. why he subjected to railing you underneath water that felt like it was nearing sub-zero was beyond you. it’s not like he’s about to admit he enjoys fucking his special little fire soldier. how he relishes and engrains the sight of your fucked out facial expression deep into his head, burning the image into his retinas. shit, you wouldn’t be surprised if the reason why he sometimes spaces out is because of you.

it’s always been blatantly obvious that you’re the captain’s favourite, no matter how much he denies it and how many glares he shoots at the people from other companies. you’re always left apologising for his behaviour, attempting to keep a straight face.

for the one time you dragged him out to patrol with you, and the amount of incessant whining, complaints and bribes you offered your captain, after a full month of lovely slow burn he decided to come along with you. he just up and left, had the audacity to turn around and ask you why you’re still standing there. benimaru always kept his distance to yours close, in fact the separation was almost minimal. you could feel his shoulders ghost over you.

every time he noticed someone staring at your figure for a little bit too long to be deemed appropriate, he hissed a scoff of distaste. at around the third or fourth person, you were already forced to deal with his short temper.

“what the hell are you gawking at? mind your damn business.”

but sure. apparently you’re not his favourite.

he can scoff and complain all he wants, but that won’t stop him even now from lazily snaking his hand around to his favourite baby girl’s waist. to him, this seems like the most normal thing.

“how else is she going to stand upright? she’s all stick and bones, the wind will knock her right over.”

okay, benimaru. you keep telling yourself that. even when his fingers feel an itch every time they’re not touching a part of your skin. he tends to get a whole lot more mouthy and irritable every time you’re not around, too.

hell, even his own townsfolk pick up on the fact that he’s out and about more. rounds that he always left to the lesser important underlings became more commonplace, especially with you by his side.

but the things that go on behind closed doors?

his peppermint red eyes that haunt your mind, infiltrating your very thoughts. you could be minding your business, going on about your day until you get an abrupt flicker of his mundane tic-tac-toe gaze staring up at you from in between your thighs.

you could be taking care of hinata and hikage, entertaining their antics when you feel the weight of benimaru’s stare burn holes into your uniform.

you could be doing your daily sparring with the captain. in the zone, breath held and blood stream steady until you remember the feel of his hot tongue trailing along the side of your neck. for someone who seems to be stuck in a perpetual state of sadness, you always catch the arrogant smirk that pulls at his lips.

“thinking of something?” he’ll cock his eyebrows, using the distraction to take a jab to your gut.

you groan, stirring around in your bed. you hate him, hate that stupid half lidded gaze of his. you hate how soft his wavy jet black locks are. the way the strands tug and bend whenever you try to yank his face away from your cunt. you run your fingers through your hair in a valiant yet futile attempt to free your thoughts from your captain. it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, and you haven’t done anything but reminisce about your lover for the past hour and a half.

a meek and uneven sigh hisses from your lips. your eyes screw open and you flinch at the hard sunlight that pours in from the window. as you use the inner portion of your elbow to shield your gaze, you catch glimpse of a very familiar figure in the doorway.

“captain shinmon?” you inquire, propping yourself up onto your elbows. he closes the door behind him. you’re certain that you looked like a loyal dog sat panting and wagging its tail upon discovering the return of their owner.

“excited to see me?” he remarks in a flat tone, opening the grocery bag he’s carrying before setting a few things down onto your nightstand. it’s mostly medicine, though he snags a few of your favourite snacks and drinks. there’s also one of those fascinating green tea bottles that you buy at the vending machines, except they’re served piping hot.

“how’re you feeling?”

“i told you i was going to get sick if we had the water that cold.” you huff, averting your gaze in a fit.

“not my problem you can’t take a little temperature difference”

“a little? that shit was freezing! how the hell can you take water that cold?”

“how can you not?”

you chuckle a little, shifting to stare up at the ceiling.

“don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“you know i don’t do paperwork. sure as hell not gonna start doing it now.” benimaru huffs, kicking his boots off by the door. you can hear his clothes rustling and your head snaps to face him. he shoots you a glare, as though to scold you. it’s dripping on his face. ‘really? you’re so eager.’

“move up.” he cocks his head to the side, motioning for you to move over. you shift up, room spinning a little too much for your tastes. the mattress dips with his weight and his right arm (our left) reflexively hangs in the air for you to dip your head into the crook of where his shoulder and collarbone meet. he discards his navy kimono, the article of clothing hangs on one of the hooks at the back of your door. it’s probably not much comfort for him to be relaxing in a bed with half of his uniform still on.

you squish your face against his hard chest, head rising and falling in time with his breathing. the said arm relaxes and his hand rests against your shoulder. subsequently, you realise this is the first time you’ve seen him fully without his kimono on. at the very least, he’d still have the other sleeve on.

benimaru notices your blatant staring at his other arm. he can’t comprehend why you’d gawk at it now, since he’s used it plenty of times to choke you.

he hums a small ‘hm’ in question, asking you what you’re so fascinated about. you can feel his voice thrum and rock against his chest, it sends small shivers licking your body that he doesn’t miss.

“you look so funny without your kimono on. why don’t you wear it like this more often?” you drag your nails softly against his biceps. there’s a small groan that hisses from him. as you await his response, you outline a large vein that runs from his upper arm and trails down all the way to his wrist.

“i get cold easily.”

“then why did you take a shower with me?”

“are you hearing yourself?”

surely a little bit of his body temperature was enough to sacrifice. even if it meant he was sneezing a little bit and shivering afterwards.

“seriously? you can take a tranquiliser but you can’t stand a little cold?”

“you’ll make a shitty wife if you can’t even keep me warm.”

“beni!” you hiss at benimaru in appaul, craning your face up to guffaw at him. the manners on him sometimes are despicable.

you pout, shifting your upper weight to flick benimaru in between his eyebrows. he screws his face in mutiny, lips curled into a scowl.

you and him both know that if it were anyone else flicking him like that, they’d be sent crashing through six different blocks of houses down the street.

“oi.” he warns you, tutting.

“konro come by and work some voodoo magic bullshit on you? ‘cause you’re testing your luck by pissing me off. you’re such a menace when you’re sick, it’s unbelievable.”

you hum in awe, inching your face closer towards his. there’s a wave of mockery that paints your face green and you can only laugh at the unrest that swirls in benimaru’s eyes.

he won’t have his pet talking down to him like that. no, no. that just won’t do.

“oh? really? you want me to do it again?” you flash him a cocky smirk, digits curled into a flicking position. you rest the bridge of your middle finger against benimaru’s forehead, slicking some of his charcoal stained locks out the way.

his left hand flies to catch your hand in an instant. with just two of his fingers, he can wrap himself around your wrist. his touch is assertive, firm. he can drag you the fuck away from him as he pleases, but there’s no real malice or force behind him just yet.

“yeah? try me.” he barks, peering down at you through his lashes.

you just might.

[thewertsearch]

Nevertheless, you have still not been able to get that broad, flat gizmo there to work, which is a design you have borrowed from one of your GRANDPA'S more mysterious inventions.

Hey, I've been waiting for you to show up! 

This isn't really a machine, it's the summoning window from Rose's grimoire. Jade's probably having trouble with it because she's used to 'mundane' tech like the nuclear reactor(!) sitting beside it. 

It's probably a lot harder to apply her power to something that’s explicitly supernatural. Maybe after she’s levelled up a bit, we can revisit it - or we can use alchemy to take shortcuts.

Among the errands you have planned is to venture out to find your pet and best friend named BECQUEREL.

Becquerel, eh? The Harleys are quite the nuclear family.

You may contemplate which shirt design you favor the most and commit to that setting in the near future.

The atom symbol is probably my favorite. I also like the pumpkin symbol - they’re surrounded by a lot of weirdness in this story, just like her.  

I’m also seeing that she has copies of John and Rose's symbols in the mix, but notably not Dave's. Why the bias, Jade? Is he not in the inner circle?

Furry culture isn’t inherently unwholesome, despite what some believe. Jade’s clearly just really into anthro animals as a concept. 

Is this Jade's 'contemplation page', like the ones we’ve had for Rose and Dave already? Usually they’re animated, with misattributed quotes at the bottom. Either way, reading between the lines of Jade's thoughts, there is something coming through here.

Words slough from the busy mind like a useless dead membrane as a more visceral sapience takes over. Something simpler is in charge now, a force untouched by the concerns and burdens of the upright, that farcical yoke the bipedal tow.

I don’t think this interest came from nowhere. There seems to be some sort of ‘primal instinct’ in Jade, which is trying to fight its way to the surface. Jade’s been a cheerful girl so far, and I’ll be very interested to see what happens when she gets really mad. 

If I’m right, and Jade really isn’t fully human, this could be our first in-universe hint.

And Bohr wins the day. 

Looks like the symbol carved onto the pumpkin was Bec after all, too. I'm still seeing an antlion.

A Homestuck-level convoluted story with a precognitive protagonist? I can't even imagine. Really gotta start Problem Sleuth one of these days.

[mercury-morganite]

Danny Elfman has feral rizz.

[thetorturerwrites]

Welcoming Work

Summary:  “I’m…” You faltered, trying to find a way to explain what was happening to someone who likely had no idea about any of this. But he nuzzled you like a puppy, and your smile led the way. 

“It's welcoming work.”The way he sat up straighter, moved your hair to one side so he could see better, and leaned into you, threatened to melt you into a puddle of goo.

“I need to welcome a new city,” you said. “New job. New apartment. New opportunities and friends.”

Author’s Note: My favorite slut is at it again, this time with a little woo thrown in. 

Also:   The contents herein come with facets of my own witchery and practice. If this doesn't line up with your practice, don't come for me. All paths are inherently personal, and I'm not gonna argue mine.

A bit of sex, a bit of fluff, a bit of crafting.

***

♪ Be my sister, sister of the moon   Some call her sister of the moon ♪

You sang under your breath as you walked. Fleetwood Mac always opened craft days. The slightly mystic sound calmed you, centered you to a place to begin. As the day wore on, the soundtrack would become progressively more intense. Santana. Florence + The Machine. Music was the gateway, the shot to start the race.

You’d planned today for a month, checking your calendar and your pantry and stock for ingredients. Everything aligned perfectly, right down to the day of the week. Saturday, so you could get yourself feeling good all day and be genuinely ready later and not scrambling to throw it all together.

It was this plan that had you knocking on Adam’s door at 1 in the afternoon.

“Hey-eee?!” His smooth voice tilted up a bit at the end, surprised to see you in his hallway. “What’s up?”

You had no idea why he called you kid, nor did you have any idea why it felt so good that he did.

Adam Sackler was one of the first people who befriended you here. You worked part time as a stagehand for the theatre company he acted for. He smiled a lot which you really liked. It lit up his face; and when his hair was pushed back and out of the way, his ears wiggled with every smile. He had an infectious personality.

In addition, he was one of the most attractive mother fuckers you’d ever seen in your life. All broad shoulders and muscles. He was, simultaneously, a gigantic goofball and a walking aphrodisiac.

“Hey, Adam!” You gave him a friendly wave but shook your head when he opened the door for you to come inside. “I won’t be long. Wanted to talk to you about something real quick.”

He was also an unabashed sex fiend who flirted shamelessly. You lost count of how many suggestions he’d made about shagging you silly, and you couldn’t remember anybody ever winking at you in your life, but he did. He often pointed to the bathroom door with an indecent brow lift, silently asking you if you wanted a quickie. Without fail, you snickered and shook your head.

You probably should have turned him in for harassment, but part of you knew he’d stop the instant you said don’t. And the rest of you decided that you liked the way all his comments, queries, and suggestions made you giggle. You needed happiness these days.

“Shoot.”

He leaned on the door, casually looking like the world’s largest lollipop, and you worked hard to not ogle him. It was decidedly not a simple task.

“You know all the comments you make about quickies in the back of the theatre or walking me home at night to make me breakfast?” You canted your head because he shifted uncomfortably. His face darkened a bit, and you knew it was because he expected to be chastised. “I’d like to take you up on that.”

Interest flitted across his handsome features, and he took a step towards you.

“Is that right?” He smirked and tried to tug you into the apartment by the strap of your bag. “Think I can make time for you, kid.”

A wide smile broke across your face. You couldn't help it. The absurd things he said entertained you. He was the most adorable idiot you’d ever known.

“Ah, I was actually thinking later tonight. Would that work for you? I have some things to do this afternoon.”

It wasn’t a lie. You had things to do, but you were more interested in the thing's timing. You had an agenda; and as appealing as an afternoon in his bed sounded, you were sticking to it.

“Why now?”

His question gave you pause. It was a fair question, but you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to answer truthfully. He might think you bizarre and not worth it. Don’t fuck crazy, as they say.

“I’m dealing with some things,” you said. “I could use the boost. Think you could come by around 8?”

♪ Dark lady laughed and danced and lit the candles one by one   Danced to her gypsy music 'til her brew was done ♪

The knock at your door came at 7:45. Entertained, your lips twitched because he never struck you as the punctual type. It could almost be construed as eager.

Inside of two minutes, you had your ‘hey kid’ and the single carnation he brought for you. You twirled it in hand and smelled it with the coy look you knew always won cute points. And then he was in your apartment, mischievous eyes looking you up and down before surveying everything beyond you.

“Holy fuck, your place smells amazing.”

You smiled at the compliment, tucking the carnation into one of too many glass jars you had on the counter top. You pointed to the large pot of simmering cider. Your apartment smelled of fruit, cloves, and bourbon. He wasn’t wrong; it was amazing. Beyond that, the pleased sound he made had your insides buzzing.

“Are you hungry?” You ducked out of the kitchen to finish the task he interrupted. “I finished supper a bit ago, but there’s still some left if you are.”

Finally looking away from the yumminess on your stove, he watched as you circled your place, striking match after match. Your apartment glowed with candlelight; pillars and votives adorned anything with a flat surface. It gave the room a warmth, the type of succulent vibe that always made you feel sensual and open.

“You tryin’ to romance me, kid?”

It wasn’t condescending or belittling. It was an appreciative joke. The grin on his face said he was poking fun at you, but the crinkle of his nose and eyes said he liked it. The lick of his lips said he also appreciated your flowy, nearly see-through linen trousers and little white tank top.

“Uh-uh,” you shook your head. Flashing eyes accompanied a little twirl of your fingers. “It’s magic.”

Your sassy quip seemed to delight him because he pushed off of the stool he’d claimed and crossed the room like a panther. There was something hunterish about him, and it was oh so tempting. It occurred to you, for the millionth time, exactly how tall he was when he curled down around you. His long arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush. His lips found the crook of your neck, and he nudged your earlobe with the bridge of his nose.

“Magic, huh?” He began a wholly distracting trail of kisses along the side of your throat. “You smell good, too.”

“Mhm.” You splayed your fingers across his pectorals, enjoying the steady beat of his heart. “You’re gonna help me.”

He lifted his head to look at you, curiosity clear in his arched brow and pursed lips. 

You swallowed, gulped more like. Time to jump off the bridge. You didn’t want to lie to him, but your path wasn’t exactly mainstream. Most people thought you silly or devil-driven. But you couldn’t raise the type of energy you wanted on a lie.

“Oh, yeah?” He cocked his head to one side, deliberating. “What am I gonna do?”

You wanted him to make you vibrate, to fill you up with that endless jubilation he always had. You wanted him to raise enough power that the top of your head would blow off. You wanted the mundane world to fall away and the inner world, where courage and spirit and wisdom lay, to rise up and work.

“Well,” you sighed dramatically, “if you suck at sex, I’m gonna be mad because that’s pretty much it.” Again, you twirled your fingers around to mark the atmosphere. “Gonna raise some energy.”

You’d never been shy about your craft, but you were careful with it. Too many times in your past, you’d felt mocked, chastised, outright chased out of homes. The name calling never affected you, but losing friendships and partners was hard. Something about Adam, though, told you he was up for pretty much anything.

“Hm.” He pondered it for a moment before nudging the tip of your nose with his. “Soft and slow energy or quick and rough energy?”

“Yes.” You nodded, cheeky and matter-of-fact. “But there is one thing I’d like to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t say mean things to me, ok?”

Adam’s predilection for dirty talk was legendary. The people he’d already slept with at the theatre gossiped about it regularly.

“I’m not a slut or a whore.” You furrowed your brow because it wasn’t entirely true. You didn’t mind it, really, but tonight needed to be specific. Good vibes. “At least not tonight. Ok?”

His fingers slithered under the hem of your tank, seeking skin. He leaned into your space and kissed a slow line from your chin, along your jaw, to your ear, where he whispered naughty things.

“Already thinking about fucking me again?”

With his arm about you so securely, he stretched you onto your toes as he straightened up to his near full height. And when he dipped his mouth to yours for the first time, you knew you made a wise decision. His lips were soft but sure, and he tasted like honey, as you suspected. The sound you made when his tongue slid along yours made him squeeze you a little tighter.

He sunk into it; you could feel it. His shoulders dropped, his fingers curled into your flesh, and his even breath blew across your cheek. His kisses were intoxicating, hungry but unhurried. He licked at the roof of your mouth and nipped at your lower lip. You slid your hands along his shoulders, up the back of his neck, and into his hair. He was solid, but slightly vulnerable in the best way.

Bending down to hook his hand under the crook of your knee, he wrapped your leg around his waist and hoisted you up as though you weighed little more than a feather. Long strides had him at the foot of your bed before he’d finished anchoring your other leg to his middle. You were never so grateful for a studio apartment with its no-wall, no-room layout.

“Hold tight, kid.”

He murmured it against your mouth, and you nodded against his in return. You cinched your thighs tight, which made him groan ever so softly, and bore your own weight for his shoes, socks, and belt to come off without him ever setting you down. Crawling onto your bed, he eased you to the mattress, knelt upright, and peeled off his shirt. A bite to your lip kept you from salivating all over yourself at the sight of him, his muscles, and that extraordinary ‘v’ that disappeared into his waistband.

He didn’t peel them off, but he did pop the button on his jeans to make a little more room for what you expected was something long and thick. Short-circuiting that thought, he leaned down over you and gave you the kind of kisses you’d only seen in movies. He was a staggeringly good kisser, making you squirm more and more with the curl of his tongue and the teasing scrape of his teeth. When he bit your shoulder, though, your breath stopped. Abruptly overcome, you felt like you might combust.

And just like that, you found the thing you needed.

He didn’t miss it and tested the theory by another bite at your pulse point. Your fingers curled into his bicepses, digging in as you whined and tilted your face away to give him more flesh. His sweet mouth turned ravenous, seductive kisses turned demanding. He gripped your chin and turned your lips to his once more, swallowing your gasps and whimpers.

He dragged his nails along your sides viciously as he pushed up your tank, leaving tracks and eliciting a long moan and the rise of your shoulders into his. Your core ached, your pussy throbbed, but you’d willingly drown in this foreplay, the middle energy between beginning and end. It was heady and erotic and tantalizing.

Adam’s teeth found purchase once more at the top of your breast, and he gave you more and more and more. The longer he explored you, the more fierce the bites became. At the peak of your breast, he got enough of a grip to pull it up and away from your torso, only relenting when you pushed at his chest. He flicked your sensitive nipples with his tongue until your hips bucked and twisted. He treated your ribs on both sides to the impressive span of his wide jaws and a bulldog bite. A satisfied rumble reverberated in his chest at your moans.

As with your shirt, he scraped flaring lines into your skin as he dragged down your pants; and as soon as you were completely bare, he attacked your thighs. He sucked the delicate flesh of each into his mouth good and deep.

You’d be riddled with bruises tomorrow, and it was incredibly worth it.

Gripping the sheets, you heaved for breath, staring at the ceiling but not seeing it. You’d expected filth from his lips, the sort of lewd banter you’d heard about. But this was too good for words, too animalistic. He drummed you up into a frenzy with his teeth and strong fingers. You floated on a pheromone high, watching as he pushed your leg up over his shoulder, but the way he bit and tugged on your meaty outer labia had you shot up and into your wits on a yelp.

You swore and rocked and tangled trembling fingers into his dark hair. It was the ideal amount of too much; and when he looked up from your pussy, you hissed at the salaciousness in his hazel eyes. You missed what he said because he was too many things. Mouth-watering and divinely sexy and utterly masculine. His lips grazed your wrist, sweeping words you didn’t give a damn about against the delicate flesh and easing you back down by his grip on your rib cage.

He delved into your sticky cunt, his tongue painting a wide stripe from bottom to top that had you shivering. Brazen and needy, your knees parted wide; your hips danced for his carnal kisses. Laid back for him again, he stole another harsh bite and sucked your clit until you nearly begged.

But he played you like a violin, keeping you suspended in want, not allowing you to tip over that edge.

Delirious, riding the endorphins and electricity in his fingertips, you vaguely registered that he shucked his jeans. You arched on a yearning prayer of thanks for the way he now pinned you with his weight and spread your thighs too far apart with his massive body. He undulated with you, matching the rocking of your hips because you couldn’t be still to save your life. Reaching between you, he lined himself up and surged forward to breach you with the plump head of his cock.

“Holy hell, Sackler!”

You choked, having only partially expected him to be carrying a goddamn torpedo. Amused, he licked your lips and pushed further in on languid strokes. He sunk into you maddeningly slow, drawing out pitiful whines, louder and louder until you slapped your hand over your mouth to shut yourself up.

“Uh-uh.” He tugged your hand away, pinning it down onto the bed and lacing his fingers with yours. “None of that.”

Concerned, you shook your head and chewed your own lips, but he bottomed out and you couldn’t help but swear again. 

“Fucking hell. Neighbors,” you eked out. 

The fiendish grin on his lips promised wicked things.

“Fuck the neighbors. Wanna hear you scream.”

He punctuated the last word with a mischievous snap of his hips, hardly withdrawing at all before surging back in. You felt socked in the gut. His dick stabbed at your stomach; and it wasn’t long before you did what he wanted. It burned deliciously. He fucked you all the way open and filled you completely. The wince you couldn’t hide was from both pain and pleasure. But as he knew it would, your body acclimated to him. The tension in your hips and legs eased, and you moved to accept him rather than limit the intrusion.

“Mm. That’s it. Open for me.”

He muttered things against your pulse, things lost to the whirlwind of lust. He wrapped one giant hand around the round swell of your ass, keeping you right there, right where he wanted. His rhythm kicked up, faster, deeper, and all the liquid in your body flooded south. Soon, the stab of his dick was accompanied by a vulgar squelch, an obscene sound to mark how much he affected you, how thoroughly he was wrecking you. A sound that made him switch from gripping your fingers to tangle in your hair. He held the back of your head tight to pull you down as he fucked up into you so forcefully your bed bounced against the wall.

“Fuck, that’s good.” He grunted against your jaw, lips dragging a line to yours. “Knew you’d be good, kid. Wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you.”

It was your turn to groan. You’d originally thought him talking to you in the midst of all this would feel silly. Because you knew he’d done it with so many others before; and surely, he had a script. But it lit something inside of you, something that was a little more than sex but still wildly fuckable. 

Adam’s breath broke into turbulent huffs littered with these erotic noises you didn’t think he could hold back. You clawed at his chest, trying to hold on tighter and hear them better because it was the best damn thing you ever heard. 

He tipped your face towards him with the gruff demand that you look at him. Barely, you managed it, but your eyes kept fluttering shut each time he struck gold in the deepest deep of your pussy. He said something else, but it was too much. Bravely, shockingly, you pressed your free hand over his mouth and shook your head.

“Less talk,” you pleaded, hoarse and on the edge of worn out already. “More you.”

Something savage shot through his shining eyes, turning them darker than you’d seen. He licked your palm and shifted to kneel between your thighs. Without breaking contact, he captured your legs and lay your calves on his shoulders. Your loud moans turned to raucous shrieks as he threw himself into you, roughshod and sloppy. With an iron grip on your hips, he leaned forward, tipping you into an angle that rattled you from your very core. His cock dragged against the most sensitive ridges, and you were sure you could feel his heartbeat hammer down through the shaft.

You lost your goddamn mind.

Teetering on the verge of oblivion, you froze. Arched like a bow, you fisted the sheets and quaked. Higher and higher you climbed, howling like a banshee. It was exactly what you wanted, exactly what you needed him to be tonight.

From nowhere, everywhere, his touch broke through the haze. Deft fingers wrapped around your screeching throat and squeezed. He growled, and you knew he felt your fractured breath, the pounding of your pulse, and every thrum of your battered vocal chords. It was a claim, a pure moment of primal to send you reeling.

He hung on until the end of an orgasm that shredded your senses. You could no longer shout, couldn’t open your eyes, couldn’t hear anything other than thunderous roaring in your ears. You curled towards him. Legs, arms, brow tight, the suspense before the bomb. But he slipped his fingers in between your puffy pussy lips and set off the explosion. You tingled from soles to soul, and it felt like it wouldn’t end. Inexplicably, you found some way to be louder, cursing like a damn sailor as you crested that wave. 

On the other side of it, you fell still and quiet. You yielded to the tempest, holding loosely to your tether of a man. Inside, you soared, hitting that amazing high you wanted. Flying in exactly the way you sought tonight.

Somewhere in the fuzzy exodus of your brain cells, he let go of your legs, pulled out from your quivering cunt, and shot his orgasm over the lower swell of your belly. You writhed and purred as he plied your shoulder and collarbone with kisses once more. His thumb rubbed your lower lip softly, and he nudged your nose with his the way he’d done earlier — a gesture that felt intimate and affectionate.

“Y’ok kid?”

Cracking your eyes open, you nodded and took as deep of a breath as your lungs would allow. Your body was pliant, relaxed and sated. The anxiety and tension tightening your muscles vanished, and the stress you carried for weeks was nowhere to be found. 

Exquisite.

Shifting to lie on his side, Adam tugged you closer, ready to bask in the afterglow. You had plans, though, and you wiggled up to kiss the corner of his mouth softly before sliding from the disheveled covers. Pushing a pillow under his head, he engulfed your bed nearly entirely, making it look far more appealing than it ever had before.

You almost told him it was ok to leave, but something inside said no. Besides, he looked awfully comfortable.

Naked and wobbly on your feet, covered in the evidence of your tryst, you crossed over to the little table lined up against the wall across from the bed. It was tucked almost into the corner, unnoticeable to most unless you looked for it or knew what you looked at.

Sinking to the floor in front of it, you stretched your arms above your head and tilted your head from side to side as you did whenever you settled to work. It was a ritual unto itself before the ritual. Readying your body to match your mind and heart.

Your eyes darted over the prepared ingredients, looking for the 30th time to be sure you forgot nothing. That’s when it occurred to you. Something unexpected always popped up, a curve ball the universe threw at you; and tonight was no different. Pushing to your feet, you hopped back into the kitchen for his gift. The sweet gesture he never could have expected would be so appropriate. 

When you turned to face the room, you found that Adam had slid from the bed and plopped down in front of your altar. He wasn’t touching anything, just looking, but he sat cross-legged where you needed to be. He noticed you watching him and held out his hand for you.

“C’mere.”

Cautiously, you took his hand and let him situate you between his legs, scooting you close enough to the altar to work but keeping you nestled in with his chest scraping your back. He stroked your hips, your spine, anything he could reach.

“What’re we doing?”

Your hand stalled because he said ‘we.’ You made it a rule to keep your craft private, for yourself only. You especially didn’t share the details with men because they liked to belittle things they didn’t understand. Adam, though, looked ardent in his question, and it birthed a warmth in your chest you’d not been ready for.

“I’m…” You faltered, trying to find a way to explain what was happening to someone who likely had no idea about any of this. But he nuzzled you like a puppy, and your smile led the way. “It's welcoming work.”

The way he sat up straighter, moved your hair to one side so he could see better, and leaned into you, threatened to melt you into a puddle of goo.

“I need to welcome a new city,” you said. “New job. New apartment. New opportunities and friends.”

You laid your head back against his shoulder as you talked, as though the intimacy you’d shared with him tonight had always been there.

“I’ve been waiting for the right time, and it’s a new moon tonight.” You pointed at your calendar, which tracked lunar cycles.  “Which is the time to work on beginnings, to set intentions for the future. All things begin in darkness; so, we start when the moon is darkest. And we face east,” you pointed to the wall, “because all things begin in the east.”

“What’s the sex bit?”

You beamed, feeling lighter and better than you had in a long time. You found yourself glad you didn’t hide your aim from him. You probably could have gotten away with it, but it wouldn’t feel like this. There wouldn’t be this comfort or this easiness to share.

“Sex is one of the best ways to raise energy. It gets your heart beating and your blood pumping. It's very potent.”

“You’re damn right I’m potent.” He puffed up like a peacock before smoothing out his tone into that sassy seduction. “Told you I’d spoil you.”

His boasting was alarmingly charming. You nodded along, because there was no way to disagree now that he’d disarmed and dicked you down you so thoroughly. Taking his cue to carry on, you tapped the different jars assembled around the little black bowl.

“Rosemary for protection. Lavender for calm and joy. Birch for beginnings. Hibiscus for love and passion. And now,” you plucked his flower from the corner of the table. “Carnation for strength.”

The proud way his chest expanded against your back did not go unnoticed. He was happy to have added something to the mix, even if he hadn’t done so on purpose. You grinned, patted his hand, and stage whispered ‘good job.’

Subtly, the moment changed, transmuting to quiet concentration. Adam drew little circles on your skin, falling into a serene silence while you worked. You placed a spoonful of each ingredient into the mortar. As you often did, you fell into humming a lilting song that connected you to the work. Pestle in hand, you ground it all together, concentrating on the melding of all of that intention.

You, your world, slid into tranquil. Your breathing fell into a pattern with his. The smell of sex and flowers blended beautifully. Dubious though you had been for him to sit here with you, he lent you a bolstering you couldn’t have predicted. Adam was doggedly sure of himself. He was solid, a surprising support with no measure of judgment. It was the sort of acceptance you wanted for all the parts of you, not just those people were used to seeing. Having him be that for you for this, in setting these objectives, was the last bit you didn’t know you needed.

Pouring the ground herbs onto a sheet of wax paper, you dabbed a bit of rosemary oil onto the slender green candle, making sure the column was coated. He cheekily held your bottom when you leaned forward and tipped off of his lap, suddenly concerned with ‘helping’ as you rolled the candle through the mixture. Carefully, you placed the dressed candle into its holder, being sure to not tap off any excess lest you lose that bit in the coming days.

Striking a match, you lit the wick and watched for a while as it burned. You felt seen, protected, ready. Shifting, you plucked a bay leaf from the waiting pile and wrote your planned words upon it. This was the last part, but you hesitated. Adam had been so kind, so present and willing.

“Would you like to do this part, too?” You offered a dried leaf to him. “Write what you want; and then, we burn it in the flame to send it out into the universe.”

“What I want?” His fingers made the leaf look ridiculously small, but he was gentle with it, taking care to not tear the edges. “Like a million dollars or something?”

You snorted playfully, handed him the pen, and settled against his chest. 

“Probably start with something simpler.”

You could wait however long it took him to decide. He set the leaf on the table, and you held it in place for him. It wasn’t easy to write on something so small, and you’d learned long ago to hold them down.

Abruptly, his free hand clamped over your eyes, and he jarred you to the left, still holding you but forcing you away from what he wrote.

“No peeking.”

You yipped, and you could feel him grinning like a fiend. When he finished, he helped you sit upright with both of his arms around you once more. He kissed your temple and returned to stroking your side slowly, his knuckles following the contours of your body. Holding your leaf to the flame, you watched the end catch fire and the black char consume it slowly, deliberately, as fire was wont to do. Matching suit, Adam pressed you tighter to him and lifted his leaf.

You gazed into the flame, content and not entirely paying attention; but he lingered, hovering just outside the light. Your eyes came to focus, and you saw his scrawled words. 

‘More sex magic’ on one side and ‘Be mine’ on the other, like a valentine.

Your breathing, which had become so mild and centered, hitched, which was what he waited for because, when he figured you’d seen what he wrote, he set it to the flame, igniting his own intention.

For a long moment, you basked in the feeling, the beautiful, beautiful mood. It was everything you wanted it to be without not knowing all the pieces and parts. You expected him to fuck you silly, but you had no way to know that he was supposed to be here for this. It would have felt lacking without him, though, and the realization of that fact had your hands seeking contact.

“Thank you, Adam.” You splayed your fingers at his outer thigh, comforted by how real he felt. “That was lovely. Thank you.”

He buried his face into your hair and pressed kisses to the nape of your neck.

“What do we do now?”

He shifted against you, hands turning a little more than affectionate. The stroking that was innocent at your sides turned devious at your breasts, kneading and plucking. A matching hot palm found your tender pussy and cupped it, not quite interrupting the moment but skirting dangerously close.

“We leave the candle to burn down.” 

“Hm. Think my wish is gonna come true before yours.”

You meant to laugh but gasped instead as a nip to your ear tripped a shudder down your spine. Adam’s thick fingers slid through the still slippery mess of your labia. He trapped you in this cubby made of his body while he fondled your clit, rubbing the slick nub in lazy circles.

“I do have a question, though.”

You had no idea how you were supposed to answer questions with him working your clit like that, but you still nodded for him to ask.

“If a little sex magic is good, a little more is better, yeah?”

♪ Got your spell on me, baby   You got your spell on me, baby   Yes, you got your spell on me, baby ♪

[utapriyanderes]

Yandere Sub AU (Fairytale AU) - Masato Hijirikawa ver.

    Masato lived repeating the same patterns of life over and over again. A noble in his village, he was born to be the next heir of the Hijirikawa estate. This was his fate since birth. He was raised to know all of the inner workings so they could prosper even more. All throughout his days he would learn and study to become the best his family has ever seen.

    The noble’s days were mundane for the most part. Times he didn’t mind and was used to. Except there was this one thing that scared him tremendously. His father. As a boy he looked up to him. His father was the prime example of what he should grow up to be in life. Yet his father was cruel.

    If Masato were to make one wrong step he would get punished severely. The punishment could range from isolation to verbal abuse or worse. His father never laid a hand on him but everything he did still broke him piece by piece. He would barely move, even breathe when his father was around. He had to force himself not to shake in his presence so he wouldn’t have to face such harsh cruelty. He ended up becoming a machine in this life of his. Someone who does as they're told without a mistake to be made.

    This was how the man now lived. Though under that machine was still a scared little boy. A boy who wanted to go free and run away from his fate. From this harsh life he was placed into. These thoughts were kept a secret in his heart.

    One day he got called to meet with his father. Masato’s expression was serious as he entered, despite being scared and wanting to leave the moment he stepped inside. He squared his shoulders as his father noticed his appearance. His dad was quick to get down to business.

    “Masato, I have picked out a suitable spouse that you will be meeting tomorrow. I expect you to get along with them for the Hijirikawa name.” Masato is surprised when he hears those words. He doesn’t show it but his mind is running with the information he just learned about. After that statement he is excused and he’s left to ponder on his thoughts.

    The next day he’s introduced to his spouse to be. They get up from where they sit on the sofa and smile kindly at him. He couldn’t help but to be slightly taken aback as they curtsy/bow in front of him.

    “Hello Mr. Hijirikawa, it’s nice to finally meet you,” their words are soft and delicate. Their aura was nothing like he was expecting. He was expecting someone cold hearted that was just using this opportunity to get an advantage.

    “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well Miss/Mr…?” He’s polite and greets them with a smile as he bows back, coming up to get their name. When they do respond he ends up putting that name deeply into his heart.

    With the common introductions out of the way he asks them if they would like to explore the estate. Offering them his arm they accept. The two of them explore many rooms together and each one the noble man is greeted by the servants they pass by and see.

    “Wow, you’re really popular here,” they laugh softly to themselves. The male glances over at them before turning away with a light speck of pink dusting his cheeks. As they walk the hallway he finds another room to lead them into. Leading them to it he opens the door for them to go inside.

    Inside the room they are in awe at the big piece of furniture being the centerpiece. They run up to it and start to play a few notes from the grand piano. Masato’s impressed at their excitement of the instrument. The soft tune they play touches his heart. A smile forms to his lips.

    “Do you enjoy the piano?” The noble looks at them as they continue to play. He walks over to stand by them.

    “Indeed, I’ve been playing since I was little.” They smile at his response before they stop playing. They move over on the bench and open their arms towards the piano.

    “Can you play something for me?” He’s again taken aback. He never thought anyone would want to hear his music besides his younger sister. Yet their smile is encouraging and warm. Something he’s not used to. Timidly he sits down next to them and plays a song that matches his emotions.

    When he’s done he turns to look at them. Tears are welling up in their eyes.

    “That was beautiful! I could feel everything you kept hidden in your heart. Your true emotions.” He didn’t expect such a response. That response made him happy. Overwhelmingly happy. He didn’t expect to find a perfect match so quickly and yet here they are. Someone who understands him and supports him.

    He shifts his body to face them head on. His expression is serious as he speaks.

    “If you enjoyed your time with me today. Then... would you consider us going into a courtship?” He can see their expression change to a look of pure happiness.

    “Yes! I would love to be courted by you!” Their response leaves him happy. A happiness he didn’t know was possible to achieve.

    After that the both of them continue to see each other. Both families are content as well as the couple. Each time he saw them he could tell he was falling more and more in love. He continued to open himself up to them and so did they. Yet he had yet to notice the other feelings growing inside of him. A feeling of need to keep them at his side, all the time.

    The next visit involved the both of them sitting outside in the garden by themselves besides a few gardeners tending to their work. The person beside Masato lays their head on his shoulder. He stiffens up slightly before relaxing himself.

    “This is nice isn’t it?” They ask him languidly with a tweedia in their hand. He responds with a simple “yes” as he looks down at them. A few moments go by before they sit back up looking at the grass.

    “Is something wrong?” Concern washes over him. A sharp panic coming from the peaceful atmosphere. They look back up with a smile on their face.

    “Masato… what’s your dream?” The question was out of the blue. He doesn’t know if he should tell them since he doesn’t know how they’ll respond. Yet overall he trusts them and answers them truthfully.

    “My dream… isn’t to run my family’s estate.” He looks at the ground now too. He feels a warmth touching his arm.

    “Then don’t. Be who you want to be. I’ll still be here with you too. Wherever you go.” Their encouragement is the final piece that was missing. It was the last thing he needed to go free from these chains that bind him. He grabs their hand.

    “Then let’s-”

    “There they are! Separate the two as quickly as possible!” The two of them hear someone shout before they are both grabbed and separated from the other. The noble man’s confused. He looks over towards their partner and can see the fear and sadness in their eyes. He turns his head and watches his father come into view. He’s about to speak but his father beats him to it.

    “The courtship is over. Their estate recently fell into bankruptcy. We don’t need their debts harming our name.” His father’s words made a dark feeling rise over him.

    “Father-!” He looks him straight in the eyes yet he stops himself short. There’s no room for arguing with him when he won’t listen, he never has. The younger noble  instead looks at his partner and watches as they hang limply there with tears running down their face. That feeling rises up even more. He yanks himself free from the servants. He rushes up and grabs you tightly into his arms.

    He doesn’t care about their family debts. All he cares about is this person in his arms. He sees from the corner of his eye that his father is getting prepared to say something. The younger noble stops him short.

    “Father, I'm leaving the estate. I want to be with them and if I can’t here then we’ll go somewhere else.” His words are laced with an unusual edge and strictness. The fear he once harbored for his father slowly goes away. He moves to grab their partner’s hand. He faces his father directly.

    “We will not be going to their estate. We’ll be in a place where you will never find us.” With these final words he leaves the garden and estate behind with them, before his father could throw out any disapprovals.

    That day the two lovers left their previous lives behind. They were happy, but the man never went back to who he was. Something snapped inside of him and that darkness only continued to spread and get worse. After the two got married his betrothed was never allowed back out into the world. He was afraid that his father would send people to look for him and try to take them away again.

    They were the ones who gave him his freedom. They unlocked the chains pulling him down. Which means he couldn’t allow them to be taken from him. He wouldn’t ever take that chance if it meant losing them.

    The dam in his heart was strongly built for so long. Then you came along. Unleashing all that he had built up.

[trashyazeohane]

Take me back

Summary: It was supposed to be Merlin waiting for Arthur, not the other way around. At least this was what Arthur had heard at the Lake of Avalon. This was what the Lady of the Lake had told him. But he was here, alive, thriving, breathing, with all his memories and close friends at his side.

Arthur was here and Merlin was not. Something was wrong.

Additional comments: Slow Burn, Angst, Amnesia, Canon Compliant, Reincarnation, Modern Settings

Not beta-read, so it may contain some mistakes!

You can also read it on AO3! Enjoy!

 ━━━━━ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

For some people Arthur’s morning could be called mundane, but not for him.

Okay, maybe it was a little bit monotonous, but he liked it this way. There was a crispy touch of comfort that came with it, with knowing every step like the back of his hand. There was something refreshing in opening his eyes and not being crushed down by all the responsibilities that had hovered above his shoulders, just waiting for a perfect moment to pounce, anticipating the time when he would let his guard down to consume the mind.

No, there were no more heavy responsibilities. There were duties, but they were light, almost delicate, familiar and comforting in their repetitiveness.

Arthur liked mornings now.

(He hadn’t thought he would ever say it. There was definitely something missing in his brain, as Gwaine would nicely point out.)

So he stood up and started his day, following the unwritten plan - take a quick shower, brush the teeth, find some fresh clothes, try to tame his hair, grab the phone, keys and wallet. The usual. The familiar.

After the morning routine was finished, he walked down, moving towards the source of sounds and voices. And it was coming from the place below his apartment.

He opened the well-known door, finding peace in the lock jumping away as he pushed the handle down. And then he was stepping into the sweet smelling kitchen, filled to the brim with sounds and warmness that curled around the bones.

The radio was playing, letting the music swim around the kitchen. The turned on oven was humming. The pot on the cooker was boiling, hissing from time to time. The water in the coffee machine was huffing.

And there was Gwen, smiling and humming under her nose as she mixed things in a bowl, not caring that the mixer was blocking almost all the sounds. Or that there was a tornado of noises.

Arthur grabbed his apron, throwing it around his neck, and then, after tying it behind his back, he stepped next to her.

“Good morning, Guinevere.”

The girl jumped, making the mixer screech as it hit the wall of the bowl.

“Arthur! Don’t sneak up on me!” She shouted, swirling around to him and furrowing her eyebrows.

“Well, I wasn’t trying to, but it’s hard not to when it so loud in here.”

Gwen sighed and then turned off the mixer, letting the same smile return to her lips.

“Sorry, I overslept a little bit. Wanted to get everything done in time.”

Arthur moved towards the coffee machine, where his favourite mug had been already placed, now filled to the brim with coffee. Just how he liked it.

“Exhausting night with Lancelot?” Arthur asked, feeling the smirk tugging on his lips.

Gwen swatted his shoulder with a dishcloth.

“Arthur!” She shrieked, letting the red haze cover her cheeks.

Gladly he had stepped back in time as to not be hit by the vicious cloth, although he almost had spilled some of his drink. This definitely couldn’t do. It was his morning elixir, the only thing that pushed him forward during this hard time.

“What? Seriously, you should stop blushing like a twelve year old maiden after living with him for six years.”

“Not everyone has such debauched mind as you.”

Arthur raised his other hand, making another step back.

“I think my mind is totally fine. Gwaine’s one on the other hand…” He shuddered. “That is one debauched mind.”

Gwen opened her lips to retort back, letting the words curl in her throat, when there was a spark and she clamped her mouth shut.

“Yeah, okay maybe you’re right on this one.” She said in the end.

Arthur grinned. He loved to be the winner.

Gwen glared at him, putting both hands on her hips.

“Brush that smirk away from your face.” She said, angrily.

Or well, at least she tried to sound angry, probably, but the smear of flour on her cheek was preventing her from looking mad. That and the fact that it was hard to look dangerous in their aprons.

(They were supposedly really adorable, according to a lot of their customers. It hadn’t been Arthur who had picked them, to be honest. But they had paid for them, so they had to use them.)

Arthur, even if he wanted to, couldn’t simply brush the smirk away. Because Gwen’s angry look was making him grin even wider.

So they stood there, staring at each other, a clearly fighting stance in both their poses and minds, waiting for the other to say something, anything, when a low hiss interrupted their inner brawl.

Gwen snapped her eyes to the side and shouted.

“My milk!”

And that was somehow the end of the small fight.

When Gwen busied herself with pushing the pot away from the stove, Arthur took a sip of the coffee and exited the kitchen, walking towards the main part of his everyday life.

(If someone would have told him back in Camelot, that he would be working in a pastry shop, Arthur would probably have laughed out loud, brushing away a stray tear from his eye, and then would have sent the peasant or knight on their merry way. Maybe even with a gold coin for lifting up his mood with this incredible joke.

Guess this was his life now.)

Arthur flicked the lights, bathing the main parlor with light.

There was an echo of silence that enveloped him after that. It was weird, because he could still hear Gwen walking around the kitchen, the fridge buzzing, helping the cakes live through the night, the AC wheezing as it let the cool air dance around the room. And yet, it was the silence and calmness that hugged him right now, the steady rhythm of the beating heart when the world didn’t exactly wake up just yet.

He raked his eyes across the familiar floor, the known walls, filled with photos and colorful pictures, the tables that definitely needed cleaning before they could be open for guests, the cash register, where the numbers were already fading, but he still could remember happily pushing the buttons his mom had asked him to, and the cake display fridge, their heartful companion through so many years.

It was his life now and no matter how weird it sounded, he really loved it.

Especially calm mornings like this one. When everything was just right for a moment, a split second.

Arthur took a sip, put the cup down and then moved to start putting down the chairs from their resting places atop the tables.

Even the king had to work.

***

“Do you have your books?”

“Yes.”

“Pencil case?”

“Yep.”

“Lunch?”

“Already packed.”

“Water?”

“Dad!”

He halted in his ministrations as he corrected the small jacket, tugging on the collar to put it in place.

The boy standing in front stared at him for a moment, looking right into his eyes, only to let a small smile slip past his lips.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for school.”

Merlin nodded, although he already felt three more question rolling across his tongue.

But Galahad had a point. It was already incredibly late and if they didn’t come out in a few minutes, they could be late. And being late meant being in the center of attention and he didn’t want that.

No.

But there was still one more question.

Merlin ducked his head and while looking sheepishly at the boy he asked.

“Your phone?”

The boy sighed.

“Already in my pocket.” And to prove his point, he even patted it a few times.

Merlin smiled and stood up from his kneeling position, feeling his knees jerk a few times. He looked over the boy one more time, checking that every part of the clothes was in place and wasn’t askew or sticking out. But no, everything was perfect.

He stretched his hand out.

“Ready?”

“I’ve been ready for the last five minutes.” Galahad answered, rolling his eyes a bit, but obediently grabbed the palm, squeezing the fingers and interlacing them in the end.

Merlin didn’t answer, but moved forward, towards the door, only to stop in front of the mirror hanging near it, showing them the perfect copy of their silhouettes, their faces, their hairs and their clothes. The thief of all their visible details.

He inhaled deeply.

“So? What’s the idea for today?” He asked.

Galahad furrowed his eyebrows, nibbling on his lip as thousand thoughts ran through his head.

Every day the same scheme and yet every day something new.

“I want to have brown hair, but longer! Blue eyes! And freckles!” A small pause. “Maybe less pointy ears.”

He sighed halfheartedly. This again.

(It wasn’t Galahad’s or Merlin’s fault. It was just genetics.)

“And this red jacket we saw last week!”

Easy enough.

“And me?” Merlin asked, glancing down at the small boy.

Galahad scrunched his nose again, letting an ocean of wrinkles appear on his nose.

“Blond! Curly hair! Brown eyes! Bigger nose!” He accented every word with a smile, swinging their connected hands back and forth. “And a different sweater.”

Merlin blinked.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

Galahad looked at him in the mirror, raising one eyebrow, like this one small movement could answer every question.

It didn’t. Although it also didn’t stop a pang of unfounded sadness from echoing through his chest, rippling the calm surface of his mind with shivering waves.

(Stop.)

“It’s ugly.” The boy finally said.

It wasn’t Merlin’s best sweater, but it wasn’t that terrible. Okay, maybe it was greatly out of style and it wasn’t as soft as it had used to be, but it was still comfortable enough for him to wear. Also it made him feel safe, more protected, better sheltered.

But what wouldn’t he do for his son? Galahad didn’t know how he felt about the sweater anyway.

He nodded in the end.

“Okay then. Are you ready?”

“Yep!”

And after that they closed their eyes.

He felt a soft nudge of the energy first, like a skittish animal, residing somewhere inside his body, looking behind the cave walls to check whether it was safe to go out or not. It looked at him, waiting for a sign that it was okay. And Merlin touched it, caressed, stroked delicately, brushing the fingers across the surface, showing that right now, in this very moment, it was okay to go out.

After that the energy, this power, didn��t need any more encouragement. It pounced and pranced and ran and jumped and leaped around his body, moved through his organs, sang in his bloodstream, mingled with his breath and drummed with his heart.

It was warm, welcoming, familiar and yet anew.

But Merlin had priorities, very important ones.

He tried to conjure the image Galahad had proposed to him, showing the way for the power to move, to show itself, pointing in the right directions.

And it shimmered, purred near his bones and nuzzled his skin, curling around the body, warming him from the inside to the very end of his fingertips. Happy to please, happy to move, happy to do something, happy to be free.

Merlin opened his eyes and couldn’t recognize himself anymore.

Galahad next to him still had his eyes closed, although Merlin could see that he managed to finish almost all of the changes to his appearance. The keyword was almost.

After a few more seconds, Galahad snapped his eyes open, the curly black hair now replaced with brown locks jumping around as he swung his head.

“What do you think?” Galahad asked, excitedly looking up at him.

Merlin hummed, tilting his head. With his free hand he nudged the energy to his fingers, letting it curl around the tips, and then he slowly brushed one auburn strand behind the ear, which immediately shrank.

Or at least to other people the ears looked smaller.

“You missed a spot.” He said.

Galahad pouted and then hung his head.

“I never can get the ears right.” He whined.

Merlin tugged his hand, directing them towards the door, letting a small snort to escape his lips.

“One day you will get it on a first try.”

The boy didn’t look like he believed him, but he followed him nevertheless.

The Sun welcomed their faces as they exited the building after defeating a few set of stairs. People sauntered around the street, walking fast or strolling slowly, glancing at their phones or looking straight forward, but not seeing anything.

It was easy to blend with the crowd at this hour. A small movement and they were already invisible to the world.

They walked quickly, methodically, swimming among the mass of people passing them by, invisible, but always a part of the wave, diving and never peeking above the surface.

It was good, the bigger the crowd, the easier it was for them to disappear.

What was needed was a small push, a sudden swirl, step behind this woman or that man and then they simply vanished.

They walked forward with Galahad obediently clenching his hand and Merlin looking around, trying to find any people who would look weird, out of place, unnatural in the busy morning routine, nudging the energy inside of him to help him search.

But there was no one suspicious.

First street, second street, third street, stopping near the crossroad, waiting for the light to turn green, then stepping forward.

When they were close enough to their destination, Merlin tugged his son in one alleyway, which would make the trip a bit longer, but was necessary. Here no one could see them, no one could see the spark in his eyes which Galahad often pointed out.

(Galahad called it magic. Merlin didn’t, couldn’t.)

And no one could see two different people emerging from the other side.

He pleaded the power inside of him to help and it did, gladly, happily, joyfully, ruffling his hair and pinching his cheeks as it changed, morphed their appearances one more time.

Galahad surprisingly remained silent, even though he had to feel the sudden gust of warm wind on his skin too.

They emerged on the other side and jumped back into the stream of people minding their own businesses, hiding in their shadows and silhouettes, pretending to be invisible and hoping that the whole world would believe it.

(It had to.)

They walked one more street, collecting a few colorful leaves here and there, tying the shoelaces that got untied due to jumping above a sewer grate and then they were at their destination.

Merlin kneeled in front of his son, putting both hands on his shoulders and leaning closer to be audible above the throng of cheery voices shouting around them as the rest of the kids ran toward the school.

“Remember, if anything happens, call me.”

Galahad rolled his eyes.

“I know, dad.”

“And don’t go anywhere without me.”

“Yep, I remember.”

“And do not-“

“Dad!” Galahad shouted.

Merlin immediately shut his mouth.

There was a sound of soft shuffling and then the boy grabbed Merlin’s wrist, letting his thumb brush the skin gently, comforting and anchoring.

“I will be fine.” He said. “Don’t worry.”

Merlin couldn’t not worry. But nevertheless he couldn’t say it, so he only opted for a small nod, a hesitant grin, a quick hug and then he was standing up and pushing his son forward.

“Have a great day at school.”

Galahad swirled on his heel and waved at him.

“Yeah, see you later!”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the building, moving with the stream of the other kids.

Merlin stood there for a minute or so, staring, trying to find something, not exactly sure what, but just anything that would sooth his mind and soul.

Only when his heart gave a lurch, he turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd.

***

“Can I get a few more napkins?”

“Be right with you, ma’am.”

Arthur obediently placed more napkins in the holder.

“Can we get another refill on the coffee?”

“In a second.”

He poured the coffee into two cups.

“Where is the bathroom?”

“The first door on the right.”

The woman smiled at him.

It felt like it would never end. People came and came and came and it didn’t feel like they would stop coming.

(He knew it was good for the business, for him, but sometimes, for a moment, he just hoped to not hear that damn bell ring again, for everything to suddenly stop so he could brush his forehead with a clean cloth.)

But he was the boss here. And it didn’t matter that he was the ex-king, a job needed to be done.

It felt like an eternity had passed before his bones were allowed to rest, as he slumped down on a chair in the kitchen.

The customers were still sitting in the shop, but there were less of them and most of the morning ones had already left, leaving a few tables empty. The chatters still swam around, but no one was currently standing near the cash register, neither it looked like they needed anything.

So Arthur finally could take a break.

“I can see that we had a busy morning.” Gwen happily prompted, flicking a few droplets of water at him.

“Well, would be less busy if you could help at the front.”

“I can’t. Remember the order for two dozen macarons for three pm?”

Ah, Arthur totally forgot.

“Well, any help still would be nice.” He moaned, even though he knew it held no power.

Gwen looked at him, raising one eyebrow, but with a bit of sadness and guilt shimmering in her eyes.

“Sorry.” She said.

Arthur didn’t blame her. He just had to whine a lot, because dealing with it all was always easier out loud. Especially if it was Gwen who was listening to him. Although after some time even she couldn’t stand his grumbles, groans and comments here and there.

“No harm done. The order is important too.”

“On the bright side, Beatrice should be coming soon for her shift, so you’ll be free.”

“Finally.” He huffed.

Gwen glanced at him, but then returned to making the macarons.

Arthur knew he should help her, he wanted to help her, but in the same time he had to take a break, spend a few minutes breathing deeply, feeling his chest expand under the strain of the muscles being used too much.

Who knew working in the pastry shop could be so exhausting?

Gwen hummed to herself as she approached the oven and glanced inside, nodding to herself, clearly happy with the outcoming results.

She walked elegantly around the kitchen, yet with a hint of joy to her movements, stretching her hands and fiddling with the equipment with some kind of delicacy and softness that made the place more mesmerizing.

It was just baking, but somehow it felt like magic to Arthur.

And it always reminded him of home – of Camelot.

(No. He shook his head. Camelot wasn’t his home anymore. It hadn’t been for a pretty long time. Yet when he observed Gwen walking around, clearly knowing what to do, he couldn’t not see the serving girl from several hundred years ago.)

“Lance got a promotion.”

“He did?” Arthur absentmindedly asked, not hiding that he was looking at the girl.

Not in the affectionate way, no. She was his dear friend, but that was all Gwen was right now. The incredible friend. And Arthur was okay with that. No, more than that, he wanted for her to be his friend, nothing more.

“Yeah. His hard work finally paid off.”

“That’s amazing!” And it really was. “Are you planning to celebrate it somehow?”

Gwen shrugged.

“Lance didn’t tell me anything, but I’m thinking of taking him out for dinner this weekend.”

Arthur smiled at her.

“You totally should do that. I know a guy who has an incredible Mexican restaurant five streets away from here. I can give you his number.” He leaned forward, bending his back which was right now killing him.

And he wasn’t even that old, thank you very much.

“Oh, that would be amazing!”

Arthur took out his phone, found the correct contact info and sent it to Gwen’s mobile, which peeped happily from behind the apron.

“Here you go.” He stated and then put the phone on the counter. “Tell him you know me. He will give you the best seats.”

Gwen looked at him, grinning from ear to ear, making the stars shimmer in her deep eyes and a light blush to spread like snow on her freckled cheeks.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He felt his chest squeeze and expand, burst like a supernova, only to collapse into itself as a sudden wave of memories enveloped his heart.

(The same smile, no, not the same, not her smile, someone else’s smile - brighter, broader, yet delicate and soft, shimmering like the Northern lights, captivating, endearing, smile that could make his chest flutter and wash all the problems away…)

Arthur’s breath hitched and he covered it with a cough.

“No problem. You deserve a break. You help me so much around here.”

“Oh, Arthur…” Gwen gently started, looking at him with mirth still dancing in her eyes, but also with a hint of nostalgia of lives that already had ended long time ago and the remaining memories that still plagued their days. But then the smile was replaced by an impish smirk and an evil glint. “You should have been so open back then. It would save us all a lot of worry and time.”

“Well, hard to be open when you’re the king.” Arthur mused back, raising his eyebrow. “It’s an easy way to get manipulated.”

“Then I’m glad you’re not the king anymore.” Gwen continued, looking at him. “You look happier now.”

(The fact that he didn’t have thousands lives on his shoulders and conscience every day clearly helped.)

But what Gwen had said was true. He was happier. He had loved Camelot, he still did, but he must admit that he also loved his new life. It was different, astonishingly so, almost like his whole past life had been turned upside down.

“I am.” Arthur admitted. “Or well I will be once–”

The words scratched his throat, halting in their journey and then crashed down, right towards the bottom of his stomach, making it twist painfully inside the body.

It was a conversation they already had had a thousand, if not more, times. Over and over again, with different people, throwing around speculations, possibilities, memories, pushing the gears, coming up with ideas–

Still with the same results.

It just frustrated him and pained, both in the same time.

Gwen stopped moving her hands, which had been whipping the cream, to glance at him, the worried crease adorning her forehead.

He could see the pain and ache that thrummed through her eyes at the soft mention, at the hesitant reminder, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Gwen inhaled deeply, bracing her shoulders and looking up at him with focus so intense that it could cut any stone in half. And then, in one swift movement, she clutched the hand he had been keeping on the counter, gripping it tightly for a moment.

“We will find him, Arthur.” She said, promised and gave her word.

And he stared at her, trying to memorize the pure certainty that was radiating off her.

He wished he could be so certain, instead he was plagued by the possibilities and dark outcomes that didn’t want to leave his mind.

Nevertheless he nodded, gripping her palm back.

“I know.”

And then she moved away, keeping a watchful gaze from time to time on his tired silhouette. A protector, a knight on duty, watching, waiting for a movement to take out a shield and a sword.

Arthur snickered under his nose.

Well, how the tables had turned.

***

He had a bad feeling. There was this weird echo, a string shimmering somewhere inside his chest, a delicate touch of a hand on his shoulder that pushed him away from the course.

He had a bad feeling and his gut never failed him.

“Dad!”

Nevertheless Merlin couldn���t stop the smile from bursting on his lips as he saw the familiar mop of hairs running towards him.

(Or as familiar as it could be, still with the change being there.)

He caught the boy as he jumped at him, wrapping his hands around the small body to feel the warm presence near his heart.

“Hey, sport.” He said, tightening the grip for a second, enjoying the brief moment of calmness before he put the boy down. “How was your school today?”

Galahad immediately lurched himself onto his palm, grabbing it like an anchor of a ship.

“Great! Damien and I were doing the Math exercise and then Sophia…”

Galahad’s story jumped left and right, high and low, changing the course at least three times. It was a feat to try to remain on track with everything that was leaving Galahad’s mouth, but Merlin tried his best to not let his mind get astray.

They walked, with Merlin listening to his son prattling happily about this class or that kid in the school, merrily recollecting what had happened today and the days before.

These short moments – smiling face, shining, blinking eyes, scrunched in joy nose – filled Merlin’s heart was warmness, spreading it around, letting the energy prance and dance around him, curling around his chest like foxes and coyotes during the cold night.

He listened and looked around, observing, cataloguing the surroundings. People walked around, passed them, brushed against their shoulders, slipped next to them.

It was a big crowd and they should have easily disappeared in it.

They should.

And yet there was a soft nudge of the energy, gripping his chin and letting his head tilt a little bit to the left, almost like it was pointing at something.

Merlin’s heart shattered.

There it was, the sensation, the darkness folding itself around the silhouette of a man. The man who was looking at them, curiously, judging, calculating.

Merlin felt a shiver run down his spine. His hand tightened the grip on the palm of his son as he walked forward, trying to move faster, but also to not look suspicious. The energy flowing through Merlin’s body floated down, moving towards Galahad’s face to hold it gently and make him only stare forward and not look around.

The boy immediately quieted, gripping his hand in response, interlacing two fingers to have a better grip.

Merlin could feel eyes on his back as he crossed the road, trying to hide behind a group of teenagers.

“Dad?” Galahad quietly asked and it was a miracle that in the noise and tumult he heard him.

“Don’t look around.” He whispered.

The boy obediently nodded, staring forward with focus and fear mixing, mingling on his face. The trepidation was there too, swimming across the skin, pushing and pulling the muscles.

The energy flowed back to him, watchfully glancing around, sensing the surroundings.

One here, two there, another one in front of them.

It didn’t look good. It didn’t feel right.

There was a bus stop in front of them, filled with people, and a slowly approaching bus behind.

“We’re going to take a detour.” Merlin said, trying to smile at the boy.

Galahad bopped his head.

They managed to sneak onto the bus, letting the door close swiftly and quickly behind them, preventing anyone from stepping inside. And if Merlin helped the door to stay open for three or four more seconds only for them, then no one needed to know that.

Another small movement, a nudge, a sensation he was sure he should know and remember, but couldn’t find it in his mind and memory, helped him to create a fake image of two bus passes.

The driver didn’t notice the difference. No one did.

Merlin tugged Galahad forward and they sat down on the seats on the side facing the road.

The boy shifted and curled into his body, hiding beneath the arm that Merlin had thrown across his shoulder.

He could hear and feel the boy’s heart thump rapidly in his body as the stress and nervousness took over the nerves.

It was going to be okay. Somehow.

He patted Galahad’s hair softly and kissed it as the bus brought them further into the city.

***

Arthur hummed to himself to the rhythm of some weird pop song that floated from the radio standing on the cupboard.

His hands methodically cleaned the dishes, getting rid of the dark spots from coffees or crumbles remaining after eaten cakes.

Gwen took over the pastry shop and cafe for a moment, so Arthur could rest a bit – which meant dealing with the responsibilities that didn’t need interacting with the customers. And he was okay with that.

It calmed him, in a weird way.

Apparently the calmness couldn’t stay for long, as the door to the back exit suddenly burst open and a giant silhouette stepped inside.

Arthur lifted his one eyebrow.

“Did you learn manners from Gwaine?” He asked.

The man turned to him and grinned wildly, holding two giant crates in both his hands. They looked incredibly heavy, but for the man it seemed like they weighed no more than two puppies or kittens.

“Arthur! Didn’t expect to see you here!”

“Where else am I supposed to be, Percival? I work here.”

He owned this place, but that was beside the point.

Percival beamed at him and put the two crates down, which let out a loud thud as they were met face to face with the floor. Heavy indeed.

“I know, but at this time you’re usually at the front.”

“Gwen took over for a moment, we had an incredibly busy morning and I needed a break.” Arthur said, whirling to the sink and turning off the water, which to this point had been still flowing over his hands, painting them in pinkish hues.

“Weird way to relax, but whatever swings your boat, man.” Percival patted the crates. “I brought you your supply.” Then he grabbed a device hanging on his neck. He pushed a few buttons which beeped tiredly. “And I need you to sign here.”

Arthur dried his hands on the dish cloth hanging on his shoulder, walked to Percival, grabbed the pen he was giving him and then wrote his own messy signature on the electronic screen. It looked more like scrawls than his actual name, but no one really paid attention to that.

“Thanks.” Percival nodded at him happily, letting the device hang on his neck. “And while I’m still here…”

From the glint in his eyes Arthur could already guess what the man wanted.

“Yes, we have your favourite jam doughnuts. We left some especially for you.”

Percival beamed at him, looking like a giddy teenager that was just asked to the prom by their crush.

Arthur moved towards an empty window in the wall, from which he could see the main part of the pastry shop, and leaned through it.

“Hey, Gwen, can you give me the doughnuts we packed? Percy is here.”

Gwen swished her head towards him, standing at the cash register where she was attending to a young man.

“In a second.”

As Arthur turned around, Percival had helped himself to a batch of fresh gingerbread cookies, which were cooling down on the counter, and now was huffing loudly as he definitely burned his mouth.

“Watch out, they’re still hot.”

Percival swallowed, letting the fresh tears appear in the corners of his eyes.

“Still worth it.”

Arthur decided to take that as a compliment, especially as these were the cookies he had made.

Percival grabbed another two cookies and started to throw them between his palms, trying to cool them down quicker.

“So how are you hanging?” He asked.

Arthur shrugged and returned to cleaning the dishes. The answer to this question was too elaborated, but Percival probably knew, even understood that.

“I’ve been better.” Arthur answered honestly and moved to another set of glasses. “Got a few more orders, so I’ve been quite busy nowadays.”

“That’s why you haven’t been answering any of Gwaine’s messages?”

Arthur halted in his movements, feeling the water splash across the glass surface and wet his shirt. There was a brief moment when he felt the whole world crashing down on him, suffocating, stealing all the oxygen from his lungs, pressure dropping and crushing every muscle and bone. There was a puncture, a sudden snapping sensation, a swirl of the cosmos expanding inside his chest.

And then, it all was gone. A blink, a second and he was okay, standing in the kitchen with hot water running down his hands.

“Maybe.” He finally murmured and resumed the washing.

It was repetitive, comforting, calming and familiar.

Percival shuffled, or maybe changed his position, leaning his hip on the counter and looking like a looming mountain in this small room.

“Well call him when you’ll have some free time. Don’t tell him I’ve told you this, but he is starting to get worried about you.”

If Gwaine was starting to get worried about him, then maybe the situation was way worse than it seemed.

Then, more quietly, Percival added:

“We all are.”

Arthur turned off the water.

“I’ll call him today.” He finally said, drying his hands with the dish cloth and turning to the man.

Percival grinned at him, not with the full smile he usually wore, but with a different one, a kind one, one that knew that not all was good, but at least something tilted towards the happiness.

“Well, better do that, if you don’t want to have Gwaine bursting into your house in the middle of the night.”

“I know, I remember the last time.”

Arthur shuddered. He also had had to change his door, because Gwaine literally had destroyed the lock. So yeah, he didn’t need the repeat of that.

Percival popped the cookies he had been holding into his mouth.

There was a movement and a box slid into the kitchen, with Gwen’s head peeking out from the window.

“Here you go.” She said and turned to the guest. “Hi Percival!”

The man waved at her softly.

“Hey to you too.”

Gwen pushed the box further.

“Sorry, one is a little bit crushed.”

“No worries, I’m sure it’ll still be tasty.” Percival said, grabbing the box and putting it under his arm.

“Well if not, you can blame Arthur. He was the one who destroyed it.” Gwen happily commented, crossing her hands on the counter.

“Hey!”

Percival snorted, what was followed by a small snicker from the girl herself.

“Well, I need to get going. Same time next week?”

Arthur nodded.

“Sure, if there will be any changes, I’ll call you.”

Percival swirled on his heel and marched toward the exit.

“Catch you all later. Say hi to Lance from me, Gwen.”

“Will do.”

And with that the man exited the kitchen, leaning his body forward to not hit his head on the doorframe.

Arthur snorted under his nose anyway when he still heard Percival hitting his forehead on the doorframe of the backdoor leading him outside.

Every time.

***

The sky was painted in dark hues and strokes, as they marched through the city with the hands clasped together and the faces hidden in the collars.

It was close to winter, with the temperature dropping down and the world turning dark earlier than usual. But it was good for them. It was easier to disappear in the darkness than in the broad daylight of the city.

Although the crispy air wasn’t helping their movements. Neither the energy inside him was pleased with the coldness.

Galahad obediently followed him, looking skittishly around, holding tightly onto his palm. He looked exhausted, after being thrown around by the stress and constant moving, running, escaping.

With a small nudge and a plead, the energy enveloped the small boy’s body, warming him a bit, curling around him like a blanket made of cosmic dust.

Merlin felt like they were walking for hours and still there was a trace behind them, a sudden silhouette appearing in the distance, looming across the horizon. He could feel the stress playing a cacophonic melody inside his lungs, squeezing them painfully.

They had to disappear. Somehow.

But how?

There was another short shove from his energy, pointing in a vague direction behind them.

Merlin didn’t have to look back to know that someone was on their tail.

There was something he could do, but it was a risky move. Yet he was running out of options and ideas.

(He had to get Galahad to safety. Take him out of the equation – the one that didn’t look like it could end well. He had to protect him.)

His breath stuttered inside his chest, as he felt his choices slip through his fingers, scatter across the pavement like tiny crystals, smash to pieces due to the passing time.

Galahad tripped and Merlin moved down to help stabilize the boy.

He had to do something. Before it would be too late.

There was a small push, a poke to his mind, a shift of his face, tilting it, sprinkling the golden dust across the air, showing a barely visible line. It was pointing towards a good hiding place, a safe place, a hideout.

Merlin trusted his gut feeling. And he trusted the energy inside of him, it had never failed him.

He tugged Galahad and disappeared in the alleyway near some loud cafe or bakery. He didn’t get a good look at it.

There were a lot of garbage cans and waste containers standing around, together with a delivery truck, although one of the smaller models. It didn’t look like the nicest of places, and his heart broke inside at the idea of what he was about to do. He didn’t want to, but he had no other options.

(At least this place looked moderately clean and it didn’t smell. Small mercies.)

Merlin tugged Galahad and pushed him behind the delivery truck, glancing back towards the street and pleading the power to conceal them for a moment.

“Dad, what are you-“

“Stay here. Hide. Don’t come out till I come back.” Merlin quickly whispered, glancing back and forth, feeling like someone was ripping his chest apart.

Galahad’s eyes widened and he immediately surged forward.

“No, dad, wait, you can’t-“

“Stay.” Merlin repeated himself, this time more sternly, hoping to hint on that parenting tone that always made Galahad obey. “I’ll be fine, but I need to be sure you’ll be safe first.”

It wasn’t the best hiding place, but he trusted his power.

Galahad didn’t look convinced and stared at him with the pleading eyes and trembling bottom lip.

“It’s going to be okay.” Merlin softly whispered, brushing away the fringe with one hand and leaning closer to plant a kiss on the boy’s forehead. ”Don’t come out. Don’t move from here. I will be back for you, I promise.”

His son still looked like he wanted to object, but Merlin was already moving away, losing the tight grip on the small fingers, immediately feeling the heat leaving his body.

Another silent plead and a part of the energy inside parted with him and curled around the boy, forming an invisible shield, hiding him from prying eyes, ones that wanted to harm.

Galahad looked up at him and opened his mouth, but Merlin lifted his hand and put one finger on his own lips.

He quickly peeked out of the alleyway, glanced at the name of the café or whatever shop was there, catalogued the name in his memory, together with the street name, and then waved his hand, conjuring an image next to him, one resembling the boy. For everyone it seemed like a real life person, but only he knew that it was only that, a mirage, a coldness that didn’t reach his heart.

He stepped out, turned and walked forward.

He had a plan.

***

Arthur’s days weren’t the most interesting things in the universe. On the contrary, they were quite boring. Beside work he didn’t do much in his daily life and even then, work took most of it.

That was the pain and fun of being the boss.

After finishing his shift, he had come back to his house, had sat down on the couch, had opened a laptop and simultaneously turned on a TV to have some background noises.

And in this position he had spent the next two hours.

Maybe there was some truth to Percival’s words.

He stood up from the couch, putting the laptop on the table first, and then stretched his hands above his shoulders, feeling the bones pop into places. Wow, okay, he definitely felt like an old man and he wasn’t even that old.

He still had dinner – spaghetti – from yesterday, so he decided to throw it into a microwave, instead of doing something new. Tomorrow he could do something else, maybe chicken, there was one in a freezer which needed to be eaten, because it would get bad soon.

The bowl burned his fingers, so he had to put it down for a moment. Then after a few seconds he decided to try it once again and then almost ran to the living room, feeling the heat seep into his skin.

Arthur sat down and let the bowl cool down a bit.

He munched on the dinner slowly, putting the laptop back with him on the sofa and surfing through the pages, scrolling from time to time down to read more.

It was perhaps a boring life, the one he had, but he liked it.

Well, almost liked. There had been bumps, ups and downs, sudden turnabouts, turns left and right, hesitations, but he really enjoyed what he was doing.

Although maybe Gwaine was right, maybe there was a spark of truth to what he was saying. He had been a little bit off nowadays, hiding in his home instead of going out with his friends or generally with someone.

(Not that there was someone.)

The fact was that he knew he was acting like that. And he simply couldn’t stop himself.

Another short swipe of the finger, another line of text and a photo appeared and still nadda, zero, null, zilch.

Apparently, the world was ending, if he admitted that Gwaine may be right about something.

(Although maybe the world ending wouldn’t be such a bad thing. At least it could be called an emergency. And the emergency that required magical assistance and help. And then, maybe, perhaps, he could see–)

Arthur sighed and closed the laptop.

He simply couldn’t understand it all. Arthur thought that after regaining his own memories and finding out from the Lady of the Lake that he had waited almost one thousand and five hundred years for Arthur, he would immediately appear at his doorsteps, maybe throw himself at Arthur, embracing in the long-awaited hug and then everything would be right.

Arthur had got his memories back. Everyone important to him had got them back.

And Merlin wasn’t here.

Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong.

He could understand a few days, months, depending on where Merlin had been, but not years. Years filled with waiting, looking, searching, asking, conversing and still with the same results.

Maybe he was angry with Arthur? Rightfully so. Arthur deserved it, after so much that Merlin had had to live through because of him, due to him. He deserved the cold shoulder for some time. But not such a long time.

It was simply not Merlin to do it.

No, something had gone terribly wrong and Arthur was going to get to the bottom of it.

Having any clues would help, but he guessed he had to do it the hard way.

(The Lady of the Lake had told him as much as she had known herself. Arthur could see it in her eyes – how much she had wanted to help, but couldn’t.)

So this was what he was doing in his free time – searching for any clues. But to be fair, perhaps he needed some time off to clear his mind, reconnect with his friends who were as worried as he, people who understood him.

Yeah, maybe this would help, would put a fresh thought inside his head, would help him relax a bit.

Before Arthur could change his mind, he grabbed his phone and clicked the familiar name.

“Hey. Gwaine–“

***

Galahad was going to be fine, Merlin had to believe it.

He had ordered the power to help him, to protect and hide from anything that may want to harm the boy. And he trusted it, he knew it wouldn’t disobey or abandon him. As long as there was a protective coat around his son’s body, he was going to be fine.

Although the image he had put on Galahad already had faded. Keeping it up at such long distances was a feat and a difficult task, one on which he couldn’t focus right now.

(Normally he could do it, especially as Galahad’s own power helped him, but not right now.)

The part of the energy he had left behind would be sufficient to conceal the boy.

So now Merlin had to focus on disappearing on his own.

Easier said than done. Especially after what felt like the hundredth time.

Merlin felt his power nudge him, point in a correct direction, following a golden trail that shimmered and glimmered from time to time. He had tried every trick he had done until now, but they had outsmarted his every move.

They were learning.

But that was okay, he still had a few tricks under his sleeve. He would shake them off, at some point. Eventually.

Merlin turned and disappeared as he met the wall.

***

Arthur might have almost fallen asleep on the couch, if the phone didn’t suddenly buzz loudly.

Brushing away the dusty particles of sleep from his eyelashes with his hand, he grabbed the phone, that almost threatened to fall from the table, to swipe on the green icon and put it near his ear.

“Hello?” He slurred.

Yep, he was getting old.

“Mister Pendragon?” Asked a timid voice on the other side.

He knew that voice.

“Oh, hey Beatrice. Is everything alright?”

Was the pastry shop alright? Had something happened? Were they under attack? Was someone stealing something? Had there been a break in? Was someone threatening her with a knife?

(Arthur hadn’t held a sword in a lifetime, but he guessed he could still nick someone.)

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s okay, nothing wrong with the shop, but…” The woman on the other side said, prolonging the words hesitantly, nervously.

Arthur knew that tone.

“What is it, Beatrice?” He asked, sighing along the way and moving his one hand to brush away the fringe.

“It’s just…” The girl started and Arthur could almost see her in his mind bending her fingers in weird directions. “My last bus is in ten minutes.”

Was it so late already?

A quick glance at the clock told him that indeed it was already time to close the shop.

He groaned as he stood up, feeling the joints pop after waking up from an uncomfortable position he had had during the quick nap. Yep, he was getting old. Any day he would start going gray.

(Or he already had a few gray hairs, as Leon nicely had pointed out once and, of course, never again.)

“Okay, I’ll be down in a minute. What more needs to be done?”

“Just taking out the trash and locking all the doors. I’m sorry Mister Pendragon, I know I promised to not push it onto you–“

“No, it’s okay. I prefer for you to get home safely. I can take out the trash myself and lock the place. I live here anyway.”

“Thank you, Mister Pendragon, and I’m sorry-“

“Yeah, yeah, skitter off, before you’ll be late.”

Beatrice didn’t need to be told twice as she thanked him profusely and then hung up.

Arthur yawned as he put on better shoes on his feet and descended the stairs, hearing the door being shut as the girl probably already had ran out.

Well, it wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last one either. And he had spoken the truth, he preferred for his workers to get home safely. It wasn’t that they didn’t work well – they did, he could see the determination in their eyes and the hasty movements as they tried to please all the customers during the rush hours.

Besides, it was now Arthur’s shop, he wanted to take good care of it.

The light in the kitchen was still on, so Arthur directed his steps there.

Everything was cleaned – the surfaces were spotless, the dishes were dripping on the dryer, the coffee machines were unstained and turned off, but the trash definitely wasn’t taken out. But other than that, it all looked perfect.

Arthur took out the trash bag from the trash bin for plastic products and tied it. He did the same with paper wastes. Also the mixed ones. And he was surprised that the trash bin for metal wastes had to also be emptied.

He could do one trip, but then, he was still drowsy and old. So yeah, multiple trips it was.

He grabbed two bags and dragged them towards the back exit, lifting them above any obstacle to not accidentally rip them and scatter everything around.

He opened the door with his elbow and then pushed it forward with his hip, feeling the cold air of the evening hit him right in the face.

There was this crispy cold sensation of the autumn moving through the air, caressing the last leaves hanging on the branches, sneaking between the bricks, knocking on the windows and howling in the pipes.

Arthur exhaled softly, feeling the coldness on his skin waking him up a bit.

It wasn’t a busy street and it definitely wasn’t busy at this time so he enjoyed the silence as he walked towards the main bigger waste containers standing near the main road, ready to be taken away tomorrow by the garbage collectors.

A few hefty shoves and he put the bags inside.

Just how heavy plastic and paper can be? Apparently very much so. And his muscles did agree with this.

He exhaled slowly, brushing away the sweat from his forehead with his hand, when he heard a rustle coming from behind him. Or well from behind the delivery truck they kept there.

Had raccoons got into the trash again? It was a possibility. There were a ton of them living in the park nearby and they wandered here from time to time.

Well, Arthur still had other things to deal with before he could deal with the raccoons. Like taking out the remaining trash bags.

He returned to the kitchen and grabbed the rest, dragging it back outside, this time listening to the sounds surrounding him.

There was something, a quiet sound, a little sensation, just something in the air that was itching him the weird way. Not exactly the bad way, just off. Strange. Unnatural, yet familiar in its weird comforting touch.

No, that wasn’t possible, but… No.

Arthur stopped and glanced around when he heard another sound, this time a quieter one, but a little bit broken in the middle, one that cut through his chest and heart, slashing like a sword.

It was nothing, just his imagination.

He stepped closer to the waste containers, opened them and hoisted the bags to put them inside, repeating his movements from several minutes ago. Methodically. Rhythmically. He didn’t do it that often now, as he mostly worked morning shifts, but back when it had been just him and his mom, Arthur had done it quite often.

He glanced at the empty street and sighed, feeling the pull on his muscles.

It was a calm evening, night even, with the street lamps blinking above the heads, showing the way for the last pedestrians that were still walking around. But now the street was empty, allowing for the soft breeze to run around the buildings.

Arthur probably should head back, make himself some late supper and go to sleep. Yeah, that sounded like a splendid option right now. One he should follow.

He turned on his heel to stomp back towards the door when he heard the sound once again, a quiet rustle, a shift, a gasp or something resembling a sob perhaps and a whisper, clothes being moved, hands being tightened.

Arthur stopped moving and glanced around, only to direct his gaze at the delivery truck.

If he was really having raccoons again, then he was going to go insane. Getting rid of them last time had been a pain in the ass. Mostly because Gwen had got attached.

“Is anyone there?” He asked.

Kinda stupid of him, as raccoons couldn’t speak, but maybe, just maybe, there were no raccoons.

No one answered him, but at this point Arthur wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing.

Talking raccoons would be really terrifying.

Trying not to think further about it, he turned and reached with his hand towards the door handle when there was a brief sensation circling around his wrist, one that made his breath hitch and heart lurch, speeding up for a second, only to crash down.

It was a delicate touch, a soft stroke, a cuddly brush on his skin. Painfully familiar, yet with an echo of another world, another life, another past. It felt like fire dancing across his skin, making the hairs stand up, frizzling the nerves to life and making them sway and twitch. It was a warm and welcome, a bit skittish, but comforting and not threating feeling.

Arthur knew this feeling. He didn’t feel it in a pretty long time.

With his breath being lost somewhere inside his chest, he turned in the direction where the sudden sensation was pointing him at, lightly guiding forward.

Arthur couldn’t think for a moment, His mind was filled with images, sensations, moments, ideas and possibilities so bright and dark that he wasn’t sure whether to cry from joy or fear. Maybe a bit of both.

Because it was magic. It had to be. It felt familiar, like an old friend, hugging his wrist, protecting it and yet pulling forward, like it wanted to show him something.

And if Arthur’s past life had taught him anything, it was that he should trust it once in a while.

Slowly, quietly he creeped forward, keeping his steps light and steady, moving towards the nook between the delivery truck and the old trash bins he sometimes put in front of the shop when there was summer and he had additional tables outside.

It had been ages, if not more, since he had hunted last time, but a part of him still remembered it all. Years of training and practice couldn’t be washed away like sand after a tide wave. The memories were there, integrated in his mind somewhere, acting up when he needed them, even when his body wasn’t fully prepared for it.

(He got an additional pound or two here and there.)

He wasn’t sure what he expected to see. Some small part of Arthur expected to see his long lost friend, curled there and looking at him with fear and then recognition, but the other part knew it wasn’t plausible. No. Yet even when he glanced at the place, his heart still dropped.

There sat a boy, curled in on himself and looking like the whole world was breaking apart.

Arthur inhaled sharply and the sound sold him out, hissing as it moved through his teeth.

The boy snapped his head up and glanced at him, but probably saw only a dark silhouette due to the light shining behind Arthur, painting the front of him in inky hues.

There was a spasm of time, a small second filled with nothing and then everything burst to action.

The boy gasped and darted forward, crashing into Arthur’s legs and sending him back, not exactly falling on his butt, but certainly being close to it. A smart move, especially considering the small form of the unknown person, but he also hadn’t taken into account that Arthur had been a knight and even though he hadn’t held a sword in a long time, he still knew how to act and react.

So he made a swirl, pushing his hands back to stabilize himself. The maneuver cost him two seconds, seconds filled with the boy running away and the magic at his wrist almost screaming at him to move forward. What he did, hoping that his muscles didn’t forget about the hunt, about the sword-fighting, about the sudden need to run, and leaped forward, getting closer to the boy.

Arthur reached with his hand and grabbed the thin wrist, clasping his fingers around to hold, but not to hurt.

“Hey, hey, hey, calm down, I’m not trying to hurt you.” He started speaking, hoping to hint on a kind voice, but it was hard when he was probably a looming dangerous figure in the alleyway and the boy was scared.

Which proved to be right as the boy started to struggle and tried to rip his hand away.

“Hey, wait, you’re going to hurt yourself, calm down for a second, I only want to help.”

Arthur wondered if every attacker also said similar things at the beginning, but somehow that thought terrified him, so he pushed it away from his mind.

But he had to do something, before the boy would accidentally twist his wrist or something worse.

So he moved his other hand and grasped the other free hand.

Then there was a spark, the magic that had resided on his skin shifted, moved away, left Arthur’s body.

And the boy stopped struggling and suddenly snapped his head up, looking at him with wide eyes.

And only now Arthur could really see every detail, every small scar, every soft freckle, every dark lock of the curly hair, every thin wrinkle, but also the enormous ears and the big, green eyes, which looked back at him with recognition.

Arthur’s heart might actually crash down.

“The Golden King…” The boy whispered.

***

Something was wrong. Not bad wrong, but wrong nevertheless.

His energy, that part he had left with Galahad came back. But it didn’t come back screaming and shouting that the boy was in danger. No, it was content, happy, joyful, like it had done its task and now could rest, after a job well done.

Strange. Peculiar even. He couldn’t remember it ever doing that.

(But he trusted it and if it whispered that Galahad was safe, then he was safe.)

Merlin, on the contrary, wasn’t. He couldn’t rest yet.

He couldn’t shake the people off. They were likes wolves, feeling his heart pump the blood through his system. Persistent. Predatory. Moving swiftly through the shadows, reaching forward, almost grabbing his jacket, his elbow, his leg.

Merlin could play their game. He had to.

***

Well, everything about this situation screamed awkward at the top of its lungs.

Some part of Arthur still couldn’t understand how he had got himself into this situation. But somehow here he was, back in the kitchen of his pastry shop with the kid he had found outside sitting on a chair, nearby the open door.

Getting the boy inside had been a feat on its own. Arthur had had to be the one to step inside first, widely opening all doors and not getting closer than two meters to him. Only when Arthur had promised the kid that, he had nodded and finally had followed Arthur inside.

And here he was, sitting nearby the open door, backpack laying on his lap and phone clutched tightly in his hands.

Smart, he could run away any second if he wanted, while Arthur was sentenced to the other part of the kitchen.

Arthur leaned on the wall and stared at the small boy, who was looking at the ground, but hesitantly stealing a few glances in his direction from time to time.

This… definitely didn’t look good. Especially if police would suddenly burst through the door. Why would they do that? Arthur didn’t know, but it definitely looked like a good way to put him behind the bars.

He needed to calm down. There would be no police coming, at least not without him calling them first. He had to figure this one out. He could do that. Yeah, easy.

First, he had to find out who the kid was.

(And why was he so familiar?)

“Do you want something to drink?” Arthur suddenly asked, clearing his throat first and feeling that his voice didn’t sound like him.

The boy jumped, startled, and looked up at him with wide eyes, one leg moving towards the door.

Well, this was a good start.

Arthur stared at the boy and he stared back, but didn’t speak, didn’t even open his mouth to breathe.

Okay. So this was how it was going to be.

Arthur clasped his hands together, staring at the boy and clearly not knowing what to do. Move? Not move? Make the drink? Not make the drink? Breathe? Not breathe? He wasn’t that good with kids either. They never really clung to him. He could hold them and keep them occupied for a few minutes but that was all.

How old could the boy be? Nine? Ten? Eleven?

Feeling like the world’s fate was on his shoulders once again, Arthur moved to the cupboards above the coffee machines.

“How does hot choco sound?”

The boy, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer, but observed his every move, similar to a prey waiting to bolt, if the predator moved too close.

Okay, that was… super wrong.

(Arthur wasn’t a predator. At least not now. Especially not towards kids. Never towards kids.)

He sighed and decided to make the hot chocolate anyway. The kid looked like he needed it and frankly Arthur could drink some too. It felt like eons had passed since he had had a cup of it.

He took out a bag of hot chocolate mix from the cupboard and then took out two cups.

The boy observed him sternly, gauging every movement.

“See? I’m making a cup for myself too, so you know it’s not poisoned.” Arthur softly said, turning to look at the boy and hinting on a joking tone, accompanied by his smile.

The boy swallowed hard.

Well, it didn’t seem that his joke was well taken then. Okay, okay, he could deal with it. Somehow.

(Should he message Gwen to say that no matter what happens, he was not a pedophile? May be worth it, just in case.)

He dosed the hot choco with a bit of warm milk and then slid the cup on the surface closer to the boy so he could reach it, in the same time keeping his distance so Arthur would not be stepping into his personal bubble.

Arthur brought his own cup and sat on the other side of the kitchen.

That was quite a mess he got himself into.

There were two minutes filled with silence, not counting the clock ticking softly above their heads, showing the passing time. Then a car drove outside, tires screeching as it turned. A dog barked. A group of teenagers started to laugh loudly.

A calm evening. Or almost calm.

He took a sip, finding miniscule comfort in the sweet taste.

The boy glanced at him, slowly reached towards the cup and then grabbed it, sniffing it twice before taking a hesitant sip. Then he waited a minute or so, checking the time with the clock and then…

Almost downed the whole cup in one go.

Arthur blinked, taken aback by the sudden urgency to the boy’s movements, the soft, delicate but happy sounds of slurps and joyful hums that left the lips as he licked them clean after the cup was finished.

“Uh, you want another one?”

The boy snapped his head up, opened the mouth, closed and then sheepishly nodded.

This was at least something.

A few minutes later another cup was pushed towards the boy, when an idea popped into Arthur’s mind.

“Wait here, I’ll be back in a second.”

And with that Arthur pushed the door to the parlor with his hip and stepped inside.

Guided by the soft light coming from the kitchen from the square hole in the wall, he maneuvered around the room, approaching the shelves with the pastries and grabbing two choco croissants and two blueberry muffins. He put them on a plate he snatched from a cupboard and then moved back to the kitchen.

“You look really hungry. Hope this will help.”

And with that he slid the plate closer to the boy.

The kid stared at it, still holding his cup and licking his lips form time to time. There were signs of urgency and hesitation in the twitches of his hands and skitterish glances of the eyes, but other than that the boy didn’t move.

Arthur inhaled deeply.

“It’s not poisoned.”

The boy still didn’t move, but furrowed his eyebrows and wrinkled his nose. Clearly not believing him.

Arthur took a spoon he had used to pour the chocolate mix and took a piece of muffin with it, swallowing it in one bite. He did the same with the croissant, although it was a bit more problematic and left a trail of crumbs on the surface.

“See, not poisoned.” Arthur said after he swallowed the piece of croissant.

The boy observed him as he stepped back and when Arthur was far away, he snatched the plate and started to devour the food.

So yeah, Arthur felt like he had done a good thing.

In just a few minutes, the food was gone, except for the half of the croissant still being consumed by the kid.

“Do you want more food?” Arthur asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands together.

The boy glanced up and then slowly shook his head.

This was the second answer the kid had given him in the almost full hour he had spent here. It definitely was an improvement to the silent treatment.

(Which surprised him as at the beginning, when the kid had spoken, he had sounded almost pleased and eager, happy in some weird, crooked way.)

“Did you have dinner today?”

The boy stared at him, nibbled on the croissant and shook his head one more time.

Okay, so now the kid was on speaking terms. Or well, moving the head terms. So it was almost like speaking. They could have a full conversation.

And Arthur needed some answers right now.

“Okay, listen kid. You know I’m not a danger to you.” Arthur started, trying to speak in a soft and kind voice. “But it’s super late and I think I deserve some answers. Would you be inclined to give me some of them? Not all of them, if you don’t want to. Just whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

The boy looked at him and then, slowly, deliberately nodded.

Okay, it seemed that Arthur moved to the boy’s good side. Somehow.

“First of all, I don’t expect you to answer this, but I’m Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. Now you know my name, so if someone asks with whom you’ve been, you can tell them the truth.” Then like a second though he added. “Do you want to see my ID?”

A small shake of the head followed, which surprised him. He was almost one hundred percent sure that the boy would want to see one.

“Why not?”

The boy pointed at his apron, where his badge was hanging, crooked a bit, with the name and a photo glued to it. The photograph wasn’t the best, it was a few years old, but it was still him, there was no mistaking it.

Pretty clever.

“Okay, are you ready?”

A nod.

The interrogation could begin.

“Do you have any parents?”

Another nod, but a sad one. Not full. So most possibly one parent then. Or divorced.

“Do you have a home?”

A nod, although a little bit hesitant. Unsure.

“Do you want to return home?”

Another nod, but still a bit too slow. Uncertain.

Arthur didn’t like it. Not a bit. This smelled too much like an abuse. But the boy wasn’t covered in bruises. On the contrary, under the dirt of today, he was pretty clean, not neglected in any way. At least it didn’t look that way.

“Do you feel safe at home?”

The boy bit his lip, clearly not knowing how to answer. The eyes moved left and right, jumping around his knees.

Okay, okay, Arthur wasn’t sure if he should be dealing with it. Neither knew how. But he had to ask it. And if the answer would be positive, then he would have to call the police.

“Are you… abused and hurt at home?”

“No! Dad would never do anything to me!”

Arthur almost fell down as the sudden childish voice erupted from the pale lips.

The kid also looked surprised and quickly clasped his mouth shut, staring down at the ground.

Okay! This still pushed away the enormous weight from his shoulders. For a moment he had been afraid he had been met with a case of domestic violence.

“Hey, it’s alright. I’m not insinuating anything.” Only he had been a few minutes ago. “So you are living with your dad?”

A nod – a tense one.

“But still you don’t want to go back home?”

A nod.

“Is your dad at home?”

A shake of the head. The first one during this investigation.

“Do you know where he is?”

A shake of the head.

This definitely didn’t look good.

“Did he leave you there?”

A nod.

Arthur fumed.

“But he will be back. He promised me. And he… he always keeps his promises.” The boy one more time spoke, gripping the material of his jeans.

“He still left you there.” Arthur said, furrowing his eyebrows.

“He had no choice.” The boy whispered.

“What?”

The boy became silent again.

But this was good, he was getting the boy to talk. Which was not a lot, but was still an improvement. And Arthur was happy with that.

Arthur lifted his hand and massaged his face. He could feel the headache slowly moving to the shore of his mind.

“Okay, let’s get back on track. So your dad, he said he will be back?”

A nod.

“But you don’t know when?”

A nod.

“Do you have any way of contacting him?”

A small, slow nod.

“Can you contact him?”

A shake.

“Why not?”

Shit, Arthur wanted to kick himself for asking the question which needed the words to form an answer. He knew he would do it at some point.

The boy, surprisingly, spoke again.

“I can’t. His phone could make a sound and they could find him.”

This… didn’t sound good. It all was starting to get incredibly dark.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows.

“Who would find him exactly?”

The boy looked at him and curled in on himself.

“Really bad people.” He whispered.

Arthur’s breath hitched, feeling the sudden shiver of his heart.

Yeah, this sounded really bad. Like something he shouldn’t be dealing with. No, he couldn’t deal with it. There were forces in the country that could deal with it. Not him. He had stopped dealing with it when he had left Camelot and had stopped being the king.

“Okay, no, that’s it, we need to call the police.” Arthur said, then stood up and took out the phone from his pocket to dial the number–

When a hand grabbed his sleeve, tugging on it harshly and almost making him lose the grip on his mobile.

“No, please, don’t! Don’t call the police!” The boy shrieked, tugging on the shirt, looking at him with pleading, scared eyes.

Arthur blinked, taken aback by the sudden movement and the fear clearly seeping from the eyes and the voice, with the waves of terror rippling through the body.

“Okay, okay, calm down, I won’t call them.” He quickly complied, looking down at the boy and trying to smile at him.

The boy didn’t look convinced.

Arthur huffed softly.

“Here, let me just put it down.”

The boy let him move the hand and put the phone on the counter, sliding it away from him. Only then the kid stepped back, curling back in on himself, but observing Arthur, although now a bit more relaxed.

It was an improvement. Not in the direction Arthur wanted, but it was something.

There was a brief, but dense pause after that.

The boy stayed on the chair, looking at him from time to time, but mostly staring at his own lap, gripping his trousers, letting the knuckles stretch the skin, painting it in pale streaks.

Arthur sat down too and put his face in his hands, feeling the weight of today evening rest on his shoulders, pushing them down towards the ground. There were shadows curling inside his head, whispering treacherous words behind the ears. The exhaustion started to play a cacophonic melody inside his head, clanging and ringing through the skull.

Arthur wasn’t sure what to do. He wished Gwen was here, she would know what to do.

Was it too late to call her? Probably. What time was it? Around ten pm. So pretty late. And they both had to wake up early tomorrow.

What to do, what to do?

Arthur massaged his eyes, gripping the bridge of his nose in the end.

“Listen, kid…”

“Galahad.”

“Bless you.” Only after a second Arthur’s mind processed the words. “Wait, what?”

The boy twitched on the chair.

“My name. It’s Galahad.” The kid slowly said, glancing at him from behind the dark fringe.

Arthur tried saying this name out loud in his head. It was definitely an uncommon one. But weirdly fitting. Historic, with a hint of pride. The parents definitely had been inspired by his legends, although he couldn’t remember ever meeting any Galahad in his life.

But in overall… his legends were weird.

Arthur smiled tiredly at the boy.

“Well it’s nice to meet you then, Galahad.”

The corners of Galahad’s mouth jerked in something resembling a sheepish smile. Familiar. Like he was seeing a ghost from the past, a shadow creeping behind a corner, a comet of a long forgotten star.

Arthur swallowed hard, feeling his heart skyrocketing inside his chest. He tried to quench these thoughts, these memories, these feelings, but no matter how hard he tried, they were still there. Persistent. Nagging. Hopeful.

He hadn’t felt this hope in a pretty long time.

Arthur looked up, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on the knees.

“Hey, Galahad, can I ask you something?”

The boy stared at him in reply.

“Uh… it’s going to sound weird.” Well this whole evening was. “But when you saw me in the alleyway…” And when his whole world had turned upside down. “…you called me –“

There was a sudden draft, a warm, delicate touch of the wind on the cheek, a hesitant movement, just a sudden surge of something comforting and familiar that made Arthur’s heart stop for a second.

A long painful second.

Galahad’s eyes widened and he almost dropped the phone he was holding.

“He’s here.” The boy breathed out. “He’s coming back.”

Arthur looked at him, feeling the words getting lost somewhere inside his throat, walking around the maze of his lungs.

“Your dad?” He asked, just to be sure.

Galahad nodded quickly, slipping from the chair and putting the phone back in his pocket.

“Yes, yes, he is here. I felt it, I felt him. He is okay. I need to go. I need to see…”

“Wait!”

But the boy didn’t wait. He jumped out of the open door, towards the dark corridor, letting the black curls on the top of his head bounce with his every step.

Arthur cursed under his nose – he was finally allowed to do that – and followed the kid through the dark corridor, towards the back door, where Galahad was peeking out curiously, swinging back and forth on his heels. Looking, but not stepping outside just yet.

“You sure he is coming?” He asked, leaning above the boy and staring at the empty alleyway.

There was no one here at this hour.

“Yes, he’s coming, I can feel it.”

Well, that totally wasn’t strange or weird or creepy.

What had he got himself into?

They waited.

Arthur stared, feeling his heart beating rapidly in the chest, hammering and drumming, almost cacophonically, sending sparks and sudden pains through the nerves.

(He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up. He knew it only pushed him to a heartbreak. He knew that every time he had tried, something in him had sunk, pulling him down, toward the never ending ocean of blackness from which he had emerged. He had learned to control it, to not let it seize his body while promising to give something that couldn’t last.

Hoping against hope was a terrible feeling.)

Galahad balanced on his toes, peeking further and further away, when he suddenly shivered and jumped out.

“Dad!”

He was a blur of colors as he ran forward, moving swiftly through the darkness, disappearing from the light shimmering above the door as a shadow, a dark silhouette appeared around the corner.

“Dad!”

Small hands wrapped themselves around the shadow, gripping tightly and hiding the face in the folds of a shirt, almost pushing them both to the ground by the force of the embrace.

Thin hands moved through the air only to land on Galahad’s back.

“Hey, I’m here, I’m here.” Came a soft whisper.

Galahad only clung tighter.

The man then knelt down and grabbed the boy’s face, looking up at him and caressing softly the reddened cheeks.

Galahad stared back with adoration and the tears glistening in the corners of his eyes.

Arthur swallowed hard, stepping out, feeling the universe inside his chest disintegrating.

In the stillness of the night, his steps were loud as a dynamite, as a cannon going off on the sea, as a storm in the middle of a calm city.

The reaction was quick, unnaturally fast and immediate. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts, no time to think about the consequences. An impulse and a reaction.

Galahad was pushed behind the man’s back, hiding him from the view and putting the man in the front, closer to the danger.

“Who are you?” The man hissed.

Arthur quickly lifted his hands, making a small step back, showing that he was unarmed and not a danger.

“Hey, hey, calm down, I’m not an enemy.”

No reply, but a small step back followed, moving the pair away from Arthur.

He wanted to shout, to scream, to yell, to move forward and grab the wrists to prevent the man from moving back, to ask for some kind of an explanation, for the man to step into the light and to not destroy his heart for the hundredth time.

Arthur couldn’t ignore the tugging, the pulling, the stretching sensation in his heart, the gravitational force appearing between them.

(He shouldn’t hope, but god damn it.)

“Please.” Arthur whispered, begged.

The man didn’t budge for a second, but then opted on taking another step back, before a small tug stopped him.

Galahad looked up at the man, sparkling eyes shimmering in the darkness.

“Dad, stop, he is not the enemy. He helped me.”

The man glanced down at his son, but didn’t reply.

The boy furrowed his eyebrows, yanking stronger on the jacket.

“Dad, he is the Golden King. From my dreams.”

The eyes, blue like deep oceans, snapped back at him, a little bit widened, staring curiously at Arthur like he was some kind of specimen or a faraway dream.

Then there was a step forward, then another, initiated definitely by Galahad pushing the man forward, and another, and then one more and then…

Arthur’s heart stopped, crashed down, imploded and exploded, both in the same time, leaving only comets shimmering inside his chest on their treacherous way to the destruction.

“Who are you?” The man asked.

It was Merlin.

***

The man looked at him funnily. Merlin didn’t like it.

The man stared at him like he just hung every star on the sky just for him, he stared like he had longed and his prayers were finally answered, he stared like a man stranded finally seeing a ship after sending a message in a bottle.

The man stared at him like he knew Merlin a lifetime.

And Merlin couldn’t remember the blond haired man.

(Although there was a delicate thrum, a small, soft sensation inside his ribcage, a sudden melody played on the strings of his heart inside his caged chest. There was something inside of him that shouted and pleaded, but Merlin couldn’t distinguish the begs.)

Merlin tilted his head, staring at the perplexed face of the man, and repeated himself:

“Who are you?”

The man snapped shut his mouth and then cleared his throat, the emotions not disappearing from his eyes.

“I’m Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. I found… I found your son hiding behind the delivery truck near my pastry shop.” The man softly said, but his voice trembled.

Merlin lifted his eyebrow. It sounded like a truth. It sounded like it could be a possibility. It wasn’t giving him any off and weird signals, but still…

Galahad tugged on his jacket one more time, looking at him with these goddamn irresistible puppy eyes.

“You can trust him. He’s telling the truth.”

Merlin mulled over this, nibbling on his bottom lip and glancing back at the man.

He knew that Galahad was telling the truth, but he didn’t want to do that – trust that man. Trusting someone meant being put in danger or putting someone in danger, it meant sharing secrets and opening up. Merlin didn’t need to trust anyone right now.

“Come on, let’s find some place to sleep.” Merlin softly said, looking back down at his son and urging him towards the street.

“We’re not going back home?” The boy asked.

“No, I don’t think we should do it.”

Galahad’s lips wobbled, but he hung his head, moving his hand to grab Merlin’s one, holding tightly onto the fingers.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go there tomorrow to grab some stuff.”

He had to do it anyway. If they were lucky today, then the place wouldn’t be crawling with people with empty faces yet. But it was just a matter of time.

They had kept to their rules, so they should be fine.

Although their home wasn’t safe anymore. But it was a problem for tomorrow. Now he had to find some kind of hotel room so Galahad could sleep safely before tomorrow. Was there any homework that needed to be done? Merlin could make it. Galahad should sleep, he was just a kid and it wasn’t his fault that things had turned out the way they had done.

“Let’s get moving.” Merlin said and stepped onto the street.

Or he would have, if the voice didn’t stop him.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Merlin rolled his eyes, feeling the prickling stress pushing all the wrong buttons inside his mind. He was exhausted, scared, irritated and the only thing he wanted to do was sleep, stop thinking about all that was trying to get him, just curl around his son and feel the soft heartbeat echo in his own bones.

“To find a place to sleep, what else does it look like?”

It probably looked like a lot of things, but Merlin was done with today.

If the whole world could just stop, he would be very much grateful. For just a few minutes.

The energy inside of him curled around his tired muscles, warming them and making walking a little bit easier. He was very grateful nevertheless for the small piece of help.

“You can just stay with me for this night.” The man, no, Arthur, he called himself Arthur, said urgently, stepping towards them.

“We’re fine. Thank you for taking care of my son, but we really have to go.”

Merlin moved forward, sparing only one glance back, toward the golden haired man, who was getting closer and closer.

“Wait!”

“Dad.”

Merlin wanted to get away, disappear under the quilt and pretend that everything in his life was fine. He just wanted to give Galahad a warm dinner, kiss him goodnight, see his eyes flutter close as sleep would encase his mind and then observe the slow and steady movements of his chest, proving to him that it all was worth it. He just wanted for Galahad to be safe.

He didn’t want much.

He just wanted to…

The world in front of him lurched, twisted, squeezed. Darks spots glimmered in the corners of his vision, forming constellations, inky stars on the faint canvas of the sky. It felt like the time stopped and pushed him forward, both in the same time. It felt like the Earth disappeared from beneath his feet for a moment, making him float in the space-time continuum.

He was there and he wasn’t. And that was a terrifying thought.

“Dad?”

It was Galahad, he was speaking to him, all soft and concerned voice.

Merlin didn’t want for his son to be worried about him. Merlin should be the one to worry about Galahad, brushing his nose when he was cold, putting on scarf in the winter, giving the last piece of cake, combing the hair softly as they boy fall asleep on the couch. Galahad should be carefree and lively and happy, not worried and sad. His voice should be hinted with joy and mirth, not panic and fear. Why did he sound so scared?

“Dad, please!”

Merlin blinked.

The world came back to him like a sudden punch to the face, not slow and steady, but in a rush that left him powerless and small, as it swallowed him whole.

The energy in him sizzled, almost angrily, perhaps scolding him for his stubborn behavior, nudging his muscles and bones, warming the skin, ruffling the hair in a familiar, comforting manner.

Galahad was in front of him, looking at him worriedly.

And he was... he was sitting, leaning on the cold wall with his head touching the bricks.

“Dad?” Galahad asked, reaching forward.

“I’m here.” Merlin murmured, trying to sound sure and strong, but finding out that this sentence came out like a crooked whisper.

Galahad exhaled and then looked to his left.

“What’s, what’s wrong with him?” He asked, letting the tremble accompany his voice.

There was someone next to them, touching his limbs gently, prying, checking, scanning, searching for something.

“There is nothing broken, so exhaustion, probably. Nothing a good night sleep can’t fix.” The voice said.

No, not the voice, Arthur said. He was still here. Why was he still here? Why was he so persistent? Couldn’t he leave them alone?

“I’m okay.”

“I wouldn’t call it okay.” Arthur added.

Merlin turned to him.

“What do you want? Why are you still here?” He asked.

He wanted to snap, feeling the anger inside his veins, but he was too tired.

The man, no, Arthur, blinked at that.

“I just want to help.” He said softly.

Merlin wanted to say that he didn’t need Arthur’s help, that he could do it all on his own, he had been doing it all on his own, he didn’t need anyone else, but Galahad. Yet he found out that his vocal chords didn’t exactly want to cooperate with him right now.

“Dad, please. Let him help.”

Galahad’s hand was warm against his skin, earnest and trustworthy, pleading, asking, but also knowing the outcome.

Part of Merlin wanted to fight, wanted to stomp his foot down and get away. They didn’t need anyone. They were fine on their own, just the two of them against the world.

But it was Galahad who was asking and he looked like he knew what he was saying. His dreams had probably a lot to do with it.

The energy in him thrummed at the name Galahad had spoken, the one that now was glued to his mind, shimmering and almost laughing in joy, like it knew it, like it remembered it, but it was impossible. Merlin didn’t recognize the face next to him, the curious, stormy, blue eyes, shimmering like a lighthouse and a halo made of gold around the face.

But Merlin trusted this power, it never deceived him, it never let him down. Neither had Galahad.

Merlin inhaled deeply.

“Okay. Just one night.”

Arthur grinned at him and then clasped his hand, helping him get back to his feet.

Merlin ignored the shivers running down his spine.

***

Arthur had to calm down, he had to. If he kept breathing like someone was chasing him, then he would faint soon, and he didn’t want that. He couldn’t do it. Not right now.

Because this was really happening. It was the reality.

Merlin, or well, someone who looked and sounded and acted like him, was here. But it was the real Merlin. Arthur could feel it. It couldn’t be a mistake. It couldn’t be an accident. He was really here, alive and well.

Or… almost well.

There was still a tired limp to Merlin’s movements after the whole scene, when Arthur’s heart had stopped for a moment, when he had been so terrified that he had lost him the second time.

But Merlin was alive and was following Arthur to his home, holding Galahad close, like he wanted to hide him from the world, protect from the danger and angry shadows that lurked in the corners.

Arthur stepped into the corridor and flicked the light on, seeing his hand tremble as he did so.

Merlin and Galahad stopped outside, with the man staring at him with distrust, but obediently stepped in after Arthur moved from the doorway.

“My home is upstairs.” He said, trying to smile encouragingly.

Merlin stared impassively.

Galahad’s lips twitched in something resembling a guilty smile.

Well, Arthur was out of his comfort zone.

“Can I… lock the door? I don’t exactly want to spend the night with the door open.”

Merlin stared at the door he had just passed and then moved away, making place for Arthur to step closer and then lock it.

The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed in the empty corridor.

“Okay, let me just turn off the light in the kitchen and then we can go upstairs.”

No answer.

Arthur went to the kitchen, put the two cups and the plate in the sink, deciding on cleaning it in the morning, then turned off the light and stepped back into the corridor.

Merlin and Galahad didn’t move.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

Arthur was the first one to climb the staircase, grabbing the handle to the door to his flat and pushing it down. He quickly stepped inside, opening the door fully so his guests could enter freely too.

Merlin and Galahad stepped inside with the man wrinkling his nose at the smells probably finally hitting his nose.

That probably would be the spaghetti from yesterday.

“You can make yourself at home, no worries.” Arthur quickly said, stepping behind the pair and closing the door, also immediately reaching towards the lock, but deciding against it.

Merlin had seized up after one lock had clicked into place. Arthur wasn’t sure what he would do after seeing another door bolted. They were probably safe with only one locked door. The neighborhood wasn’t dangerous, but no one could ever know for sure what could happen.

There had been a break–in four months ago at a shop nearby.

Arthur took off his shoes, noticing that Merlin and Galahad did the same after a second.

The boy leaned on Merlin and definitely had some troubles with getting the sneakers off. Finally they landed in weird positions on the floor, crooked and tilted, but the boy quickly corrected them, so they could stand in an almost perfect line. Then Galahad turned and smiled at Merlin.

This was the first honest smile Arthur saw on the boy’s face.

The jackets then were the next ones to be taken off.

Arthur hadn’t brought any, as he only had expected to roam around the shop.

Galahad gripped the bottom of the blouse he was wearing and, after putting the backpack on the ground, he took it off in one swift movement, making his shirt ride up a little.

Merlin quickly corrected the shirt and then grabbed the blouse to add it to the hook where he had put his denim jacket.

And now that they were all inside, ready to step further into the house, Arthur wasn’t sure what to do.

When he had thought about finding Merlin before, he had imagined it a little bit different. In his mind there had been more happiness crashing down like falling stars, more hugs that later on would be denied, but then also would be safely locked inside his memories, more excited tears that would streak down Merlin’s face, more familiar tugs of mouths, forming full grins like crescent moons, more stories that would be shared between them in the comfortable companionship, accompanied by the feelings hidden inside the cups of alcohol.

This was not what he had imagined and had hoped would happen. But it was the reality. Merlin was here and this was what mattered.

Although Arthur wouldn’t mind some kind of a plan, list of rules and laws he should obey in this situation.

He clasped his hands together nervously.

“Here, let me show you around.”

The trip wasn’t long, especially as his flat wasn’t that big. There was the living room, connected with the kitchen with only a long table dividing these both rooms. Arthur’s laptop was still on the couch, turned on, and the TV was still going on, currently showing some ads. There was also a small balcony above the pastry shop, hidden behind a glass door.

(Gwaine loved to step out there for a smoke and call random people on the street.)

In the corridor, connected with the living room, there were two bedrooms – one belonging to Arthur, messy and untidy since the morning. He only let his guests spare it a quick glance, embarrassed by what was inside.

The guest room was tidier, although there was a thin layer of dust collecting on the surfaces. Arthur didn’t clean in here in a few weeks. Not many people used it nowadays, only his friends whenever they came over and were too lazy or too drunk to get back home.

(Last one was probably Elyan who had been using the bed. Arthur should probably change the bedding.)

Then there was also a small bathroom, with a toilet, a sink, and a tiny bathtub that could barely fit him.

And voilà, that was the end of his flat.

Arthur ended his tour back in the living room.

“And that is all.” He said, not really sure what he should be saying. “You will be staying in the guest room, if you can share the bed. If not, I can sleep on the couch so one of you can–“

“One bed is fine.” Merlin said.

It was his first sentence spoken out loud inside the building.

Most of the tour Merlin had spent looking around, checking small corners and looking out of the windows. Almost like he had been checking for something, some kind of a trap or a monster, ready to jump out and swallow them whole.

“Great. I will change the bedding for you.”

“No, you don’t have–“

“No, no, it’s okay. You can use the kitchen in the meantime, make something to drink or eat for yourselves.”

And with that Arthur ran to hide himself in the guest room. He couldn’t stay there for too long, as he felt his heart and mind breaking into hundred pieces.

He left the door pried open, in case the guests would need anything. He doubted they would, they didn’t seem like they needed much, but there was always a possibility.

Arthur wasn’t sure whether he would want them to call him or not.

In the emptiness of the room he could finally breathe freely, letting go of the stress and nerves that had held him captive since the moment he had seen Galahad behind the car. He wasn’t sure what to do. On one hand he wanted to do everything he could to not let Merlin go and on the other he wanted to be as nice as possible to show that he wasn’t the enemy, that they shouldn’t fear him. It was like a terrible juggling game, but there were no apples, only knives, swirling in the air, getting too close to the skin with their blades from time to time.

Arthur had no plan. He wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to make a wrong turn, a wrong step somewhere and make Merlin jump out of the door in the speed of light, disappearing in the golden dust.

It was like playing with fire and Arthur quickly had found out how easy it was to get burn.

At least it didn’t seem like he was the enemy in Galahad’s eyes. That was something.

After a few minutes, when he had got rid of the old bedding, he started to hear sounds coming from the kitchen, similar to opening and closing cupboards, moving drawers and scraping of chairs on the floor. Then quiet talks followed.

Arthur put on fresh bedding, spreading the quilt on the bed. It was big enough to be comfortable for two people, especially if one was a kid. Then followed the pillows and voilà, the bed was made.

Kinda too fast for Arthur to find his inner peace, but something told him that he wouldn’t get it today.

But that was fine. It was fine. It was going to be fine.

Arthur inhaled deeply, staring at the empty bedroom that soon would be filled with two souls, and then exited the room.

Merlin was snooping through the cupboards, staring curiously at what was inside of them.

Galahad was sitting on one chair and scrolling through his phone. His shoulders were slumped and he looked way too relaxed to be sitting in an unknown place after a day like today. But weirdly he didn’t look like he cared. Maybe the fact that Merlin was here was giving him support, making him feel braver.

When Arthur stepped inside the living room, Merlin closed quickly and loudly the cupboard.

“There are only spices in this one. If you want something you better search through the ones on your right. And the fridge.” Arthur said, hoping to hint on a joking tone.

Merlin, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer him. Just stared back.

But perhaps, in the end, no answer was needed, because Merlin’s stomach growled rather abruptly and loudly in the stillness of the room, accompanied only by the sounds coming from the TV.

Enough was enough.

“Okay, I think that answers any more of my future questions. I’m making some sandwiches. For all of us.” Arthur said and moved to the cupboards hanging in the middle, taking out a sandwich toaster from it. Then he blinked, holding the device in the air. “Okay I lied. I need some answers. Any allergies? Something you don’t like?”

Galahad lifted his head and shook it.

“No, we’re fine with everything.” Merlin finally slowly said.

It felt like Merlin was weighing his words, thinking whether he was using the proper ones, trying to block all the ones that could sell some information. He was guarded, protective, clearly trying to gauge Arthur, check how much he could say.

Although the curious gaze was a little unnerving, so Arthur said:

“You can make some tea, if you want to be useful.”

Merlin nodded at that and started to move around the kitchen. He clearly had seen enough, because he found the cups only after the second try, but he immediately knew where tea was.

They worked in silence, even though Arthur deeply wanted to fill it with questions and answers. Why was Merlin not reacting to him? Why was he acting so cautious? From whom he was running away? How Galahad had appeared in the world? Did he not remember anything? What was Avalon’s greatest need?

He had so many questions and no answers.

The first batch of sandwiches with cheese, tomatoes and pickles was finished and pushed towards Galahad, together with a cup of warm tea. The second one Arthur gave to Merlin, who thanked him quietly and the third one was for him.

They sat together at the table, with their cups of tea, and munched on their food in silence.

Arthur rolled over a thousand ideas inside his head. Should he call Gwen now? It was pretty late and she was probably already asleep with Lancelot next to her. He knew he had to tell her, he didn’t plan on hiding who was sitting next to him, but what could he even say if he decided to call today? Plus what if Merlin would hear him and decide that he wouldn’t want to spend the night here? No, that was too dangerous. He could wait till tomorrow. He had to. Gwen would probably demand to see Merlin immediately. Hell, she would even drag Lancelot and Elyan with her, who would bring Percival, so also Gwaine and Leon would tag along.

And that… that could be a disaster.

No, he had to wait until tomorrow. They had waited for so long, surely they can wait a day more.

“Do you have any homework?”

Arthur blinked a few times, finally noticing the soft voice next to him.

Galahad lifted his head and shook it.

“No, I finished everything a few days ago. There is an essay I need to finish for the day after tomorrow though.”

“I’ll grab your laptop tomorrow then.”

Galahad opened his mouth, glanced at Arthur and then closed it.

Soon they were all finished.

Arthur looked at them.

“Do you want to take a shower?” He asked.

Galahad nodded at that.

“Shower would be nice.” He even added.

Arthur couldn’t blame him. He had spent some hours sitting behind the delivery truck and trash bins. Even though they were empty, they weren’t that nice smelling.

“I could try to find some clothes for you and I can throw your current ones into the washing machine. They should be dry for tomorrow.”

And if not, it wasn’t anything that hair dryer couldn’t deal with.

Arthur stood up when Galahad’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he nodded.

“Okay, let me grab some clothes for you then.”

He decided Merlin wanted a set of clothes too. The ones he wore now were drenched in sweat.

Finding clothes for Merlin wasn’t difficult. They were the same height and okay, maybe Merlin was a little bit on the lanky and thin side, and Arthur had gained a few pounds, so the clothes would hang on Merlin, but it was something. Galahad was the more problematic one. Arthur managed to dig out the smallest of his clothes, but he was afraid the boy would still swim in these.

It was better than nothing.

Might as well put on his own pajamas as he was already in his room. He fished out a shirt and a tracksuit bottom to wear to bed. They were comfy and nice enough for him to walk around the house and then sleep in them. Plus he liked the shirt. Leon had given it to him a few years ago.

(Back when they both still hadn’t remembered.)

“Come, I’ll show you how to use the shower.”

Both guests walked into the bathroom with him and Arthur quickly explained how it all worked. It wasn’t too complicated, but it had a few strange tweaks about it.

With a fresh towel and the clean clothes in hand, Galahad closed himself in the bathroom.

Arthur returned to the living room.

Merlin stood in the corridor for some time, observing the door to the bathroom like he expected to hear a shout or a shriek coming from behind it.

(Like he was ready for black tendrils to appear form beneath the door and swallow the entrance whole, locking the boy inside, away from Merlin for all eternity.)

When the sink started running, Merlin bit his lip, turned around, walked slowly forward and sat back in the chair he had occupied before.

Arthur grabbed the laptop and moved to the kitchen too.

The silence between them was deafening, incredibly dense and thick like tar, making it almost unable to breathe freely. It had never been like that between them. Their calm times had been always filled with voices, conversations, laughter or whispers. The silence only had appeared when either of them had been angry or sad or had had to focus on something, but even then it hadn’t been that dense.

Arthur opened one tab on the laptop, only to close it and open another one a second later. He didn’t have anything to do on the computer to be fair. He just needed an excuse to sit close to Merlin without looking suspicious.

The water ran freely in the bathroom.

“Why are you doing it?” Merlin suddenly asked.

Arthur, not expecting it, almost fell off the chair.

“What? Using laptop? Actually–”

Merlin huffed.

“I meant helping us. Why are you helping us?”

Merlin looked at him intensely, staring into his eyes, awaiting the words that would leave the lips.

Arthur knew why he was doing it, but sharing the truth wouldn’t help him right now. So he had to cut it or show the other side of it, one that was bearable.

“Because it’s the right thing to do?” Arthur answered, prolonging the words in the way that made him sound kinda prattish and lifting his one eyebrow to further on point out the idiocy of the question, which wasn’t stupid at all.

Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Yes, because every person would offer a night at home for random people they met on the street.”

“They should, the world would be a better place then.”

“This is how killers get their preys.” Merlin added.

Arthur shrugged and then opened another random, empty tab.

“Just don’t leave any blood stains on the carpet. They would be a bitch to get rid of.”

That at least got a positive response as Merlin snorted under his nose, clasping both of his hands around the cup of tea.

Arthur’s mouth twitched, not being able to not respond to that clear and sweet show of familiar emotion.

“Nothing hydrogen peroxide, lemon juice or baking soda couldn’t deal with.”

Okay, this made Arthur snort playfully, feeling a spark inside his heart, a sun reflecting on the armor during the warm days.

“Do I want to know from where you know it?” Arthur asked, glancing up for a moment.

Merlin pointed with his head towards the bathroom.

“He actually told me.”

“Galahad?” Arthur said and immediately bit his tongue.

Shit, stupid mistake.

Merlin frowned at that, pinched his pale lips in an even tighter line and then grasped tighter the cup.

It seemed that another layer had been added to the barrier around Merlin. A second after Arthur had started to tear it down, brick by brick.

“Yes, Galahad.”

Merlin was clearly unhappy with Arthur knowing Galahad’s name, especially when Merlin himself still didn’t give his own name to Arthur. He didn’t trust him. And even though it was a logical thing to do, he still could give Arthur a fake name and be done with it. But no, Merlin remained secretive and quiet.

“He’s a smart kid.” Arthur said after a while, trying to get back on the good side.

How he had managed to do it in his past life he wasn’t sure. He had had a ton of luck back then probably. Because now it seemed impossible to do. Almost as impossible as taking the Excalibur out of the stone. That had been easy in comparison to this.

Merlin sighed, but didn’t drop the barrier.

“Yes, he is.” Then after a second he added. “Incredibly stubborn too.”

“Well you know, they say that stubbornness can be inherited.”

Merlin glanced up.

“Are you insinuating something?” He inquired, with a hint of levity at the end, a mockery dressed in a comforting, sweet, but joking tone.

Familiar, painfully so, and yet so different.

“Nothing at all. Just pointing out the similarity of your ears.”

“Hey!”

It was okay, that was okay. This was getting him somewhere. This was showing him all the familiar reactions and known smirks and comforting glances and intimate furrows of eyebrows.

“What?” Arthur asked.

“You’re kind of a prat.”

Arthur’s heart broke, crashed, crumpled down like it was cut by a sword.

“Well, it’s not a nice thing to say to the person who helps you.” He almost whined, but tried to wrap the words with a little bit of anger.

Merlin glanced up at him with that impish smile.

“And yet, it’s the truth nevertheless.”

Arthur huffed exasperatedly and was already opening his mouth to retort something back, when the door to the bathroom opened and Galahad stepped out.

And indeed, he was swimming in Arthur’s clothes.

“The bathroom is free.” He stated.

Arthur glanced at Merlin.

“Do you want to use it?”

“If you don’t mind.” Merlin nodded.

The clinging clothes definitely had to be troublesome and uncomfortable.

“Let me get you a fresh towel.” Arthur nodded.

With a new towel and clean, borrowed clothes it was Merlin’s turn to disappear in the bathroom, leaving Galahad and Arthur to fend for themselves.

To be honest, spending time with Galahad was less stressful than spending time with Merlin. And wasn’t that surprising.

Arthur still could remember those good old times, spent in his own chambers with Merlin tottering around and him trying to write a speech. It had been an everyday life rhythm, comforting and dear, yet bizarre with Merlin pointing out the mistakes in the writing or Arthur passing a cup of wine to his servant. There had been just the two of them, no barriers or walls between.

And now Arthur felt like he didn’t know Merlin at all. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe the life he had lived had sculpted him into something different, a statuette of a man he once had been, but now it was broken, barely holding the parts together. There was so much to unpack, so many shattered, small pieces to glue back together, that Arthur wasn’t even sure where to start.

“Don’t worry about him. Dad is always like that with people he doesn’t know.”

Arthur shook his head, trying to get back from the lake of his thoughts onto the shore of the consciousness.

“Hm?” He intelligently said.

Galahad pointed with his head towards the bathroom, from which they could hear running water.

“My dad. He doesn’t like strangers.”

“I’ve noticed.” Arthur admitted with a small smile, tilting his head in that way he hoped said a thousand words.

Galahad apparently understood what he had meant, because he blushed a little. One hand moved to his face where he brushed his cheeks, like this movement could get rid of the color that was residing there.

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. It was very smart of you.”

Galahad blushed harder and more furiously brushed his cheeks.

Arthur laughed at that.

It was weird, peculiar even. To sit here, in his house with a small kid that was apparently Merlin’s son and the man himself taking the shower just a few paces away. Strange, but not unwelcomed.

The tornado of the questions inside his head was swirling, twisting, spiraling and whirling, leaving everything inside his mind a mess, a clatter of stars running across the sky. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he wanted to understand, but for the first time in a pretty long time he weirdly felt happy, content, like he had made a good step in the wanted direction.

They could deal with it. They always had done that. Why would this time be any different?

Arthur tilted his head, as he glanced at Galahad who played with his phone.

“Do you want Wi-Fi password?” He asked.

Galahad glanced up at him with sparkling eyes.

“Yes, please.”

After the password was passed and Galahad managed to connect to the internet on his phone, the smile he received in return blinded Arthur.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They both occupied their time sitting on their respective devices. And this time Arthur did open some sites, mostly because he wasn’t sure what else to do. It was already pretty late, way after the time he usually fell asleep on the couch or in his bed. But then he didn’t want to miss anything, any precious minutes spent with Merlin actually, really being here.

After a few minutes the shower stopped and then Merlin stepped out, hair unruly and still wet and cheeks blazing red due to the heat that steamed out of the bathroom.

(Arthur was right, the clothes hung on him. And no, it wasn’t because Arthur had gained a few pounds, he always was a little bit more muscular than lanky Merlin.)

“Did you put the clothes in the washing machine?”

Merlin turned to him and nodded.

Arthur stood up.

“Okay, let me set it on the quick wash. The clothes should be washed in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Merlin murmured and then turned to the boy. “Come on Galahad, you need to go to sleep. You have school tomorrow.”

The boy glanced at his dad and it seemed like he bit his tongue in time before he said something. He slipped off the chair and then walked forward to grab Merlin’s palm.

“Good night, mister.” Galahad said, looking at him.

“Good night, kiddo.” Arthur replied.

Merlin pressed his lips in a tight line, but didn’t comment. Only moved swiftly through the corridor towards the guest room.

A little bit rude, but kinda expected.

Arthur walked into the bathroom that seemed like a dragon cave with so much fog spiraling around.

Okay, someone here definitely preferred warmness to cold, refreshing showers.

The clothes were indeed already put in the washing machine, but then it was counterproductive to turn it on with so little inside, so Arthur decided to add several of his own clothes. He was supposed to do the washing soon, may as well do it now. He took out a few pieces of clothing from inside the laundry basket, then added the detergent and turned on the washing machine.

Here was the ex-king of Camelot, using washing machine. Brilliant in all his soapy glory.

Arthur went out and glanced around the suddenly empty house. Might as well start cleaning around. He would be a bit drowsy tomorrow, but at least his house would be clean for the morning.

He was shuffling towards the living room, when bits and pieces of a conversation caught his attention.

“Why are you so unkind to him?” Galahad quietly asked.

Arthur stopped breathing for a moment.

“I’m not unkind.” Merlin replied.

“You are, more so than usual when you meet someone new.”

“It’s not true. I held a normal conversation with him.”

There was a sound of rustling, like someone moved the curtains to hide the light that definitely would be sneaking inside the room in the morning.

“Dad.” Galahad said.

This time no reply came from Merlin’s side, only quiet steps across the floor.

“Is it because he is the Golden King?”

One more time this name. What were they talking about? He never had heard this one before today. The King of Camelot? Yes. The Once and Future King? Definitely. The King of Albion? Also that. The King of Prats? On a few occasions. But the Golden King was new.

Merlin sighed.

“Get in the bed, Galahad. It’s late.”

There was a sound of shuffling and susurration like someone slipped under the quilt.

“But it’s true. It is him.” Galahad quietly added, from behind the closed door.

“I believe you.”

“Then why are you acting like that?”

Another short pause, stillness that could tear down cities.

“Maybe the fact that he’s the Golden King simply scares me.”

Arthur felt like his heart lurched forward, knocked and crashed on his chest, making his breath hitch, squeeze and then combust, disappear after a good hit with a mace without an armor protecting it.

Galahad sniffed.

“That makes no sense.”

“I bet it doesn’t.”

Another set of rustling ships on the ocean from quilt.

“Sweet dreams.”

“G’night, dad.”

The sound of a kiss followed Arthur as he stepped away and quickly, but quietly, moved towards the living room to at least pretend that he hadn’t heard it all.

He couldn’t exactly control his hands, which trembled rapidly as he stacked the newspapers and magazines that had been scattered across the coffee table. He also grabbed the old cup of coffee and the bowl of spaghetti, that still remained there, and turned around to bring them to the kitchen, when a silhouette standing in the corridor made him jump.

“Oh shit, I thought you went to sleep.” Arthur said in lieu of explanation to his almost shriek that he definitely hadn’t let out.

“No, still here.” Merlin mumbled back, standing there, in Arthur’s clothes and looking really out of place.

Arthur swallowed hard and then looked up at the ceiling. What should he do? Should he say something? Merlin didn’t look like he wanted to talk. Every Arthur’s previous attempt at conversation had been thwarted and had ended in silence. Why now should be any different?

With nothing better to do, Arthur turned on his heel and moved with his dirty dishes towards the kitchen.

“Let me help you.” Merlin suddenly said and almost appeared next to him, taking the dishes from his hands.

“You don’t have to do it. I can manage.” Arthur quickly stated, trying to move away and not lose the grip he still had on the bowl and cup.

“No, let me do it.” Merlin insisted.

“Really, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

And who was Arthur to say no to that determined face? If Merlin wanted to clean Arthur’s dirty dishes, then he was free to do that. He had done it before, long, long time ago.

Also, wasn’t that a weird change, from almost no speaking to holding something that resembled a bit a normal conversation. Maybe Merlin did feel bad that he had treated Arthur coldly. Or maybe Galahad had pushed something inside of him, let some walls crumble with a simple touch, perhaps a spell for a soul. Yeah, that could be it.

“Okay.” Arthur breathed out.

He let go of the dishes and decided to clean the rest of the kitchen – put the tomatoes and pickles back in the fridge, hide the toast bread in the cupboard and then swipe the crumbs away from the sandwich toaster, only to put it in its rightful place.

Merlin worked in silence, methodically scrubbing the cups from coffee and tea marks, getting rid of the stains of oil on the plates and disintegrating the once tomato sauce in the bowl with hot water and a dish soap. There was a crease on his forehead, one that Arthur knew well, one that showed that he was deep in his thoughts, thinking intensively about something, something that was utterly complicated and, more possibly than not, without any good way out.

Arthur never had liked this look. But right now he doubted Merlin would share his thoughts with him. Now more than ever.

The washing machine peeped, which signaled the end of the program, so Arthur went there to grab the clothes and put them on the clothes dryer rack standing in the corridor.

The unfamiliar clothes looked out of place in the row next to his own laundry, one that lived here the good portion of their life.

Arthur stared at them for a second too long probably.

“Thank you.”

Arthur snapped his head up.

“For what?” He asked, feeling his heart rattling inside his ribcage.

Merlin was done with the washing and now was standing awkwardly in the living room, eons, light-years away and yet closer to Arthur than in the last thousand and five hundred years.

“For letting us stay the night here, for the food, for allowing us to take a shower, for the clothes.”

For helping was left unsaid, but Arthur nevertheless understood the meaning.

He leaned down to grab another piece of clothing to put on the rack.

“It’s not a problem.” He sniffed, trying to hide how much those simple words made him ache all over inside.

“But it is.” Merlin insisted, scrunching his nose in that confused old habit.

“Not for me.” Arthur said and then bit his tongue.

Merlin turned the deep, blue eyes back at him, staring intensively, suspiciously, but with a hint of interest like Arthur was a weird specimen and Merlin tried to understand him all from the inside out. He stared like he could read Arthur, like he could know and see his every feeling and emotion that he had hid under his skin.

Then Merlin shook his head, scattering around the too long, curly, black strands on the pale forehead, and glanced back up at him.

“Can I help you more somehow?”

Arthur hung his shirt.

“No, don’t worry, I’m going to sleep after finishing this.” Arthur said, pointing at the small pile of wet clothes. “You should too, it’s really late.”

The man nodded, then walked forward, moving towards the closed door of the guest room and opened it with a quiet creak.

Arthur turned to the drying rack, trying to calm his wildly beating heart, when the voice came back again, destroying everything that he had started to tidy and build inside his mind, chest and heart.

“Merlin.”

Arthur snapped his head back up so quickly that he almost could hear something in his neck cracking. This would hurt in the morning.

“Pardon?” He murmured, blinking and hoping and praying and needing–

Merlin licked his lips hesitantly.

“My name. It’s Merlin.”

“Oh.” Arthur breathed out, feeling the tremors inside his body, the earthquake that wanted to swallow him whole, the tsunami of emotions trying to break loose.

“You know, like the wizard from the Arthurian legends.” Merlin added, almost smiling to him with that playful and yet tired glint in his blue eyes.

Arthur snorted loudly, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in, trying to control the whirlpool of memories striving to make him kneel and bend his head to bare the neck.

“I bet some people can’t let the opportunity slip?”

“Don’t you know all about it?” Merlin quipped, looking at him with mirth dancing in the corners of his uplifted lips.

Arthur smiled under his nose. He had been the butt of jokes way before he had remembered that he was indeed the real and true Arthur Pendragon. The number of times someone had made those jokes was bigger than Gwaine’s ego and it was enormous.

“I do know all about that.” Arthur admitted, smiling to Merlin.

The male stared back at him, some strange, unknown emotion flicking in these deep eyes and smiling lips. It was a skittish feeling, hesitant, almost embarrassed, but also kind and warm – a soft touch of familiarity in the dark wood, a delicate caress of the fire during the cold nights, a comforting scent of leather in the morning.

Arthur stared back, seeing and feeling like he could do it for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough to believe that Merlin was really here.

Merlin finally cleared his throat when Arthur literally didn’t move for fifteen seconds.

“I’ll be going to sleep then.”

“Okay.”

Merlin nodded at that and then opened his mouth one more time.

“Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, Merlin.” Arthur whispered back.

And with that his long lost and finally found friend disappeared in the guest room.

Arthur finished hanging the clothes and then moved towards the kitchen to turn off the laptop and switch off the lights, when it all hit him. The whole today crashed into his body, took his breath away, slashed his muscles, pierced his bones and turned his mind to golden dust. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, but suddenly it felt like there was no free space, that there were too many emotions, feelings, memories, questions, possibilities, hopes, fears and dreams inside his body to bear it all.

Merlin was here. He was really here. His body and soul and heart were really here. Years and years of searching, of checking, of looking, of gathering information, of sleepless nights and aching mornings, of dreams and nightmares, of hopes and despair, of wanting, of needing came down to this.

The weight of it all crashed down on him and he had no energy to keep his body upright. So Arthur slumped on the kitchen chair and hid his face in his hands.

What should he do from now on?

 “Take me back in time to love you

Take me back when we were lost

Lost in love and lost in feeling

Without the cost.”

– Jeff Blim

[jackedspicer]

a bio for my xiaolinsona! she’s a work in progress so i’m bound to come back and change it. trivia and more in depth information is under the readmore :)

continued trivia:

she’d show up somewhere near the start of season 4

she’s used a LOT for slapstick. in fact she’s mostly a comic relief character

she’s guided mainly by emotions, is right brain oriented, and is a hands-on learner

there is a running gag where she frequently has bandaids on her fingers, hands, arms, or anywhere really

she’s a massive funk junkie. LOVES disco. she’s also a great dancer

when she comes up with xiaolin showdowns, sometimes she’ll base it off of fun recreational activities or things that seem harmlessly mundane, like mini golf..... tic tac toe.....dance-off...... rock paper scissors..... the showdowns themselves obviously end up being high-stakes and lethal as they always are, except they’re based off of goofy premises

she’s probably musically accented by grunge that’s slightly funky

when it’s funny, she occasionally will use huge words or make jarringly philosophical statements, eg patrick star’s “the inner machinations of my mind are an enigma” cut to footage of milk spilling

shes a lot like charlie kelly. in general. any charlie moment is just. Her. she’s a wild card and screams every line and huffs glue and tries to get the honey out of a hornets nest outside of jacks house because she thinks hornets make honey and she likes ghouls and she genocides the rats in his basement and sleeps ass to ass with him and is illiterate

she likes to do arts and crafts but they almost always come out as abominations. she’ll occasionally borrow some of jack’s tools to construct her latest atrocity, and she’ll refer to them by a wrong/made up name while she’s at it. “the hacksaw duey”, “the electric hole puncher,” ”the automatic pizza cutter”, etc. yes the projects and the bandaids have a direct cause and effect relationship. please refer to this video (and this channel in general)

imagine her sitting at a table and just doing this in jack’s lair... this video alone can be used to sum up so much of her. the technique. the bandaids. the blatantly wrong information that’s said with such conviction. the dark turn towards the end of the video. “superfluous protrusion.” the way it ends

continued trivia pt. 2, taken from my instagram

(i’ll get into this more further down the post)

fighting style because this is xiaolin showdown:

she has a very nimble, disorienting style of combat. using pokemon stats as an analogy, her highest would be speed by far, followed by attack, with her lowest stats being defense and special attack. this combined with her unrelenting nature makes her an excellent distraction and a general nuisance, but she doesn’t fare well in prolonged head to head battle.

favorite shen gong wu: 

monkey staff, mikado arms, fancy feet, neptune helmet, hoduko mouse, woozy shooter (on herself), tongue of saiping, longi kite, indigo pyramid (on jack (cause it’s funny))

*the shen gong wu she’s most skilled with in battle are ones that trip up her opponents and cause status ailments. kinda like a prankster

backstory/analysis:

at her core, she’s a jolly, optimistic, humorous person, but her unruly, isolating childhood put a blow on her psyche. much like jack spicer, she’s been virtually alone her entire life - she was rejected by peers and adult figures alike since earliest childhood, and her home life was turbulent at best.

to ease the pain, at some point, she took on resenting and judging those around her as a means to cope. she has a holden caulfield-esque defense mechanism in play where if everybody sucks for this reason, or that reason, or those reasons, then she has justification for detaching herself from others, and she can derive her only source of self esteem from being better than them. this hurts far less than the devastating truth that she cannot connect with people on account of feeling so worthless and estranged from other human beings that she could never have the chance to be cared about by anyone. deep down, she’s in desperate, thrashing need of support and genuine human connection, and she has a warped perception of how she can achieve that.

she’s taken up evil as a hobby because it nurtures her desire to be destructive and, again, just like jack spicer, she engages in it as a way to feel seen. all press is good press, and the best way to make the headline is to cause some damage. what sets her apart from him in this regard, though, is that she takes all of her pain out on her enemies (in this case, the xiaolin monks) because she can’t stand how well off they are - instead, on the basis of their acceptance of one another, she sees them as goody two-shoes phonies who ought to be knocked down a peg. while evil to jack is both a means of getting much needed attention and a convoluted way of spending time with friends, to sid it’s a way to vent frustrations and a way to, well... still garner attention, but also spend time with a friend, except the friend is jack.

the other half of the reason she partakes in petty villainy is that it’s just... fun. she only got wrapped up in all this because she’d been restlessly putzing around somewhere remote, found a neat doohicky she planned on keeping, and when one thing led to another she wound up in a xiaolin showdown against jack. experiencing the chaos unfold revealed a golden opportunity she couldn’t pass up, so she asked jack to let her come with, debuting their partnership (i talk about this in further detail at the end of the post). goofing off and doing evil with him is so much fun to her! it makes her feel alive, a sensation and state of mind she never could fully achieve before.

noteworthy relationships:

jack: 

they have a team rocket thing going on. not in terms of their interpersonal dynamic, but rather their role in the story, how much of a threat they pose as, their schemes, and even their overall attitude are reminiscent of the iconic duo; they’re petty, recurring villains with hearts of gold who aren’t above occasionally siding with the good guys.

even though they both are on the same tier of comic relief and general foolishness, the metaphor i like to draw is that jack is the left brain and sid is the right brain.

their personalities have such chemistry and they’re both so goofy that they effortlessly sync up. everyone thinks it’s REALLY annoying

they’re best friends! they actually care very deeply for one another, even if they might have funny ways of showing it. they may be evil, but they’re mutually the only and closest friend the other has ever had, and with that carries a lot of weight. think of it - the first person you meet who hasn’t been nothing but awful to you likes you and wants to be around you. What a concept

while their relationship is platonic, there are several gags implying a romantic element, even though nothing is ever outright stated. kisses on the cheek, bashfulness, other characters making fun of them (“where’s your DUMB little girlfriend?” “..........she’s not DUMB!!!!!”), domestic references (“am i sleeping on the couch”)..... it’s left ambiguous because it’s hetbait plain and simple. somebody asks them what they even are and they say Partners In Crime wym. jack asks sid What Are We and she fist pumps the flat of her own chest twice, throws a peace sign and says We’re Bros

their nicknames for each other include but are not limited to “jackass, jacky-boy, jack-o-lantern, smarty pants, wiggles, spack jicer, spack, mr spack, spackle”, and “shortstack, pipsqueak, sid the kid, champ, funky monkey, foxy (in a funny way, he’ll say it like Whatcha Up To Foxy ? while she’s like making a mess doing an arts & crafts abomination or just vibing bein her weird lil self....  it comes from a place of playful sarcasm and affection) (champ, funky monkey, and foxy are courtesy of @currentlyfallingthroughspace)

to piggyback off of the left brain vs. right brain metaphor, “heart vs. brain is how they think, right brain vs. left brain is how they act, and two halves of a heart represents their natural dispositions” is how my aforementioned friend put it. they both have a lot of heart and are ooey gooey on the inside, but the difference is that sid can grasp the intricacies of emotional/psychological matters while jack can’t (actually knowing how to EXPRESS this is another topic). it’s in the same way that jack can effectively plan ahead, use logical reasoning, and know where to go and how to get there, but sid is shabby in this department. “one is aware but doesn’t address it until it’s too late, and one can’t see it and doesn’t ask until it’s too late.”  

another feature of potential conflict in all incarnations of them is the juxtaposition of sid actually being more down to earth than jack in the grand scheme of things. jack has the potential to go completely overboard, and whether or not he demonstrates the ability to catch himself on the event horizon will ascertain the outcome.

deep down, neither of them are truly evil, and they bring this out in each other as they ultimately contribute to the redemption of one another. how this actually happens is a lot rockier. sid has the intuition and self awareness to become increasingly cognizant of the fact that she engages in schemes as a way to bond with her friend, and, over time, she’s able to recognize that she’s simply been acting out, and she consequently softens up over time - but jack is much denser in this regard. he doesn’t consciously pick up on the same things she does and still believes that she’s drinking the koolaid as much as he is. the crucial dissonance in what matters most that had been incubating under the weight of things left unsaid emerges in a major falling out that challenges the nature of their entire dynamic and respective moral codes. i had a lot of help from the same friend with the following series of events and it’s really something that ought to be gone into detail on its own post, but a whirlwind brief summary is that jack becomes desperate from losing over and over so he comes up with this sinister plan that’s just too far, sid tells him to stop, they get into a nasty fight, sid leaves and makes it clear she’s not coming back, she goes to the xiaolin dragons for help, jack goes on an evil rampage but also loses his grip and has this mental breakdown because he lost the one person who’s ever cared about him (or so he thought), sid has the same brutal separation pangs but it doesn’t change the fact that jack is still doing what he’s doing, sid gets a firsthand view of a fight breaking out between the monks while she’s working with them and has a moment of clarity when she observes how they resolve it in such a healthy way, as they continue to work together and help her through the whole fiasco she realizes they’re not so bad, an entire excruciating series of events that’s genuinely too large to fit on this post unfolds and it ultimately ends with jack actually having to team UP with the good guys to stop what he started, and it ends with them breaking down, apologizing, and beginning their redemption BUT not without the illustration of several lessons that arose out of the complications of the entire thing...... the overarching lesson that’d been entrenched in their entire dynamic from the start, albeit corny, is that caring and being cared for was all they ever needed, and they learn to cultivate that within each other right under their own noses. it would be fun to have them stay as recurring villains forever, but seeing how much good is in their hearts is enough to make you wonder how they were ever evil.

xiaolin monks:

she thinks she hates them, but she doesn’t really. while her opinion of them is marked by resentment and distaste, she also holds them in high regard. a part of her wishes she could be friends with them, but the mental landscape she’s paved for herself doesn’t reveal that as an option. in her mind, she’s already been rejected by them. so why try?

the way she takes her pain out on them - people who had nothing to do with her traumas - can be summed up by the spinel su quote, “why do i want to hurt you so bad? i’m supposed to be a friend. i just want to be a friend.”

she gets chummier with them upon her redemption. out of the group, she gets along best with clay and dojo :) 

bonus origin episode

this would be the imaginary early season 4 episode i mentioned at the beginning of the post. it’s more of a loose string of ideas tied together with reckless abandon but hey. the episode would open with jack feeling lonely and down on his luck to establish the theme that he kinda needs a friend (”wuya’s gone, chase trained his cats to get surly with me if i show up, my evil dream team won’t answer my calls....”). his sulking is interrupted by a shen gong wu alert and he’s like. whatever. i don’t need them. i’m still gonna do this on my own. even if it’s. ˡᵒⁿᵉˡʸ. fastforward to the scene i described where sid is putzing around with her doohicky (which i’m considering might be the neptune helmet) all by her sad miserable lonesome when suddenly some flying bloke in a trenchcoat who looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in years shows up telling her she’s got something he needs. she of course responds with something along the lines of “you know what? why don’t you try to take it from me since you want it so bad, mr big stuff,” triggering a xiaolin showdown. this is around the time the xiaolin dragons show up too late - but they’re grateful for somebody having been there to fight jack in time, even if they have no idea who they are. she has no clue what’s going on, but whatever it is, she LOVES it. she goes buckwild. she has a time. jack, on the other hand.... well, understanding how badly he needs that wu is certainly throwing a wrench in it, but he can’t help but feel like he’s having a bit of fun too. well, up until he loses. post-showdown, the monks kinda count their chickens before they hatch so to speak and they rush over to this new kid with a shower of praise, thinking they have a friend on their side. instead, she cuts them off, shouts to the guy who’s gathering his bearings (or lack thereof) - “hey! jack was it?” - and playfully tosses her shen gong wu in the air, catching it. “you look like you need this thing way more than i do. tell you what! take me with and i’ll let you borrow it,” is what she follows it up with, implying she wasn’t really that invested and only saw the whole thing as a fun game. jack and the monks are flabbergasted. what’s more bizarre is she did in fact ask to join him, something nobody’s ever done out of their own volition before. she talks about how boooooooooooring it is here and how that was soooooo much fun and to pleeeeeeeease take her with. he’s really iffy about it and doesn’t know if it’s such a good idea. he tries to make himself look cool, telling her “as IF, shortstack..........im afraid The Jack Rides Alone................................................. but-” and ultimately buckling because he can’t deny that it would be nice to have someone around.

[monchikyun]

30. bet you’ll love me

Everything is new to Connor. He is still finding pieces of himself in various places, trying to build himself up as he’s learning more about the world around him. A world that isn’t bordered by a code or defined by his mission. It has been an intimidating notion to be considered a human, he’s felt overwhelmed and lost, at times, but as months passed, the initial awkwardness of being new among other real people has washed out, leaving only the wonderfully mundane stuff behind, like doing chores and finding out that he maybe has a crush on one of his coworkers.

The people who used to fear him and project their hatred by proxy are now more or less becoming his friends or at least casual acquaintances. This of course includes detective Reed, the one person who might have probably been scared of him the most. They are more or less ignoring each other nowadays, but sometimes Connor catches the man stealing glances at him, which is not exclusive only to Reed. Because Connor watches too, whenever he has the opportunity to. Maybe he subconsciously tries to impart his inner-most feelings to him, tries to create something between them that isn’t there. It’s very unproductive and he cannot find a rational explanation for this, but he has been told that’s more than normal when one is not a flawless machine. So he accepts it as it is without trying to solve the mystery it carries around with it, just enjoying the fact that he’s able to experience such a natural thing. The pain that comes with it is just a necessary evil.

But the longer he allows those emotions to course freely through him, the more his overall mood worsens. He doesn’t know what the most correct course of action in this particular scenario would be, and he most certainly won’t find out by dwelling on it inside his overwhelmed mind. There is of course the internet at his infinite disposal, but he tries not to rely on it so much. It feels like cheating, like he’s robbing himself of organic development. So he opts to ask one of his friends, despite the embarrassment he’ll suffer from due to divulging a personal sentiment such as this. The person he chooses ends up being none other than Gavin’s own buddy Tina, and not only because her insight has the best chance of proving to be the most helpful. Connor simply likes talking to the sharp-tongued young woman. She doesn’t keep sweet with him, doesn’t act like he’s any better than the rest of them. He gets grounded by her blunt words, and that’s just what he needs right now.

 “No fucking way. Talk about coincidences.”

Connor partly hopes that this means just what he suspects it would. The other part of him, the one that is readying him to bolt is convinced that it’s a completely unrelated statement.

Tina’s interest has perked up when he confessed that he maybe, possibly likes detective Reed for some weird reason. Honestly, it is more like an itch he can’t scratch, mildly infuriating and begging to be dealt with.

“Do you think I should talk to him about it?” He can’t imagine how that conversation would possibly go, and he isn’t sure he’d really like to find out.

“Absolutely not. It would be a terrible idea, trust me on this.”

Her voice drips sincerity and he loses all grounds not to do what she says. His heart sinks to his stomach, though, despite the small surge of relief that came over him right after he’d got his answer.

He is stupid for believing this would lead anywhere good. Utterly foolish for thinking that there is someone for whom he meant something, something other than just becoming friends with the most advanced android in existence.

So he goes on with his days, pretending like this doesn’t faze him. Days turn into weeks, and he still can’t get rid of that weight inside of his chest. Whenever he finds himself in detective Reed’s proximity, the man’s stress levels rise and his pulse elevates. Either he’s afraid of Connor, or… but there is no “or”, there can’t be, no matter how much he wishes for the detective to like him back, it’s never going to happen.

It’s Friday, an unusually slow one, for which he’s thankful. Connor is in low spirits, counting the minutes remaining until he can go home. Three hundred thirty-nine and counting. He looks at detective Reed for the fifth time this morning and when nothing out of the ordinary happens as a result, he decides to go make a coffee for Hank, since his attention is slipping and he caught him closing his eyes for longer than it would be deemed safe was he driving. He isn’t, luckily so, but his list of transgression is lengthy enough as it is.

He stands in front of the coffee machine, hypnotised by the steady flow of liquid that is filling the plastic cup, not paying attention to his surroundings.  

That’s why he doesn’t notice the figure joining him in the break room, why he’s oblivious that someone is creeping behind him like a silent assassin.

“Connor.” His name gets called in that terrifyingly familiar voice, which is a first. A wonderful first.

He turns around, attempting to present himself as casually as he’s able to, to hide his traitorous nervousness.

“I like you.” 

Reed says it like he’s talking about the downpour behind the windows, like it doesn’t concern him at all. And before Connor can react in any way, he’s gone, leaving the android in an utter state of shock. He can’t be sure it really happened, that it wasn’t just his overactive imagination preconstrucitng indulgent scenarios on its own.

Still, he forgets about the coffee and runs back to the office, not being surprised when he finds Reed’s desk empty. Connor catches him outside just as he’s about to unlock his car. The few moments they spend in the rain are enough to soak them, making them look like they went for a swim without taking off their clothes.

 The detective gives him a look that betrays vulnerability and verifies the truth of his statement.

And Connor can’t help himself anymore.

“I like you, too,” he shouts through the onslaught of raindrops, to make sure the other man hears him properly. A boulder has been lifted from where his heart lies, and he feels like crying. But it wouldn’t be fair for him to do that, so he lets the sky do it for him instead.

“Okay, great. What now.” Not the response he expected, but at least Reed doesn’t flee, which is a success on its own.

Even if Connor knew the answer to that, it’s not like he could afford to do anything at this moment. He’s still on the clock, after all.

“You should go now. But call me sometimes after six, if you want. I know you have my number.” To that, the detective nods and hurriedly enters his car. Connor watches as it speeds away and gets swallowed by the drenched city.

-

“It was a bet.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Tina bet me to say those words to you before you would.” Gavin exhales and wishes that his corrupted soul escaped together with the released breath.

“Oh. You won, then.” And Connor sounds so hurt he wants to scream. At himself mostly, for being such a terrible person and causing the broken sound being spilled from Connor’s lips.

He’s glad he can’t see the android right now, that at least he’s spared the opportunity to touch him. But he wants to do just that, more than anything else in the world.

“No, I didn’t. I… don’t want that money, not anymore.” He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines that he’s someone who has the right to say what he’s about to because there is nothing that would stop him from doing so.  

“I meant it, Connor. I do like you, maybe even more than that.”

 It wouldn’t take much to fall in love with him if, he’s painfully aware of that.

“Is this just a part of that challenge?”

“No, of course not. I realise I have no right to ask you to trust me, not after all this shit, so I won’t. Just know that I’m really, truly sorry. For everything. And I know you deserve-“

“Shut up. I meant it too, you know. I still do, even though I fucking mad at you right now. And at Tina.”

“Didn’t know you were allowed to swear. It’s kinda hot coming from you.”

“Don’t push it.”

Yeah, he figures. It’s just that he has a nonexistent impulse control.

“Will.. will you forgive me?” He gives up on concealing his anxiety, the self-loathing caused by his recklessness. His voice has its own say and there is not much he can do about it.

“We’ll see. Depends on how you’ll behave from now on.”

His absolute best. Gavin can’t do anything but bet Connor’s affection on it.

@convinseptember thank you very much for this challenge! I’m glad I was able to participate ♥ 

[cryoculus]

Can you do a part 2 to the ushijima soulmate thing? Please?

← Part One    

Part Three →

» Word Count: 4,736 words

I’m sorry this took so long! This work is also cross-posted on AO3 and it’d mean a lot if you left your feedback on this post or in the link! Make sure to read part one first because this won’t make a lot of sense if you don’t~

***

“Are you really sure this time, (Name)?”

The dubious ring to Mei’s words was borderline offensive, but given all the false alarms that you’ve put her through, you figure that the tone of voice was entirely warranted. You heaved a dreamy sigh as you fell onto her bed, arm resting on your forehead.

“I swear it’s him, Mei-chan. I can feel it in my gut!” you proclaimed.

“Uh-huh,” was Mei’s enthusiastic response when she turned her swivelling seat around to face you. “Are you just going to pretend that you didn’t say the exact same thing the last time some stranger thanked you?”

You stuck out your bottom lip in a pout at her pronounced disbelief. “I-I don’t know! It’s just that, when I talked to Ushijima-san earlier, it’s like—agh!” Burying your face in her pillows, you let out a frustrated groan. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“I’m just looking out for you; you know that.” Mei exhaled a long breath through her nose before getting up to sit next to you on the edge of her bed, stroking your hair. “I’ve seen you give your heart out to a bunch of people who turned out to be the wrong person already. I just—I don’t want you to keep making the same mistake over and over.”

Her voice held a hint of remorse, possibly for her prior indifference. But you knew more than anyone else that if there was anyone who was as engrossed with your soulmate as you were, it would definitely be Mei.

You shifted on her mattress, sitting upright as you stared at the words scrawled on your inner wrist. Not everyone had the reassuring soulmate mark on their skin; not even Mei. Most would call you special, some even said you were lucky. But you’ve always believed that having a generic set of words that anyone could utter to you on a daily basis was more of a curse than a blessing.

To add even more insult to injury, you were a terribly hopeless romantic. The moment a person would say, “Thank you,” your heart almost always skipped a beat, launching you into the mindset that you’ve found your match. And no matter how many times your hopes were smashed into pieces, you’d continue to think that the next person would definitely be the one.

It was no different when one of Japan’s top five aces greeted you with the same words.

Knowing from experience that the best thing she could give you was time to contemplate, Mei left you to your own devices as she worked on the homework assigned a week ago from her desk. Sighing, you wondered how she had the unceasing motivation to balance her school work and her volleyball career at the same time.

“(Name)-chan? Mei? Dinner’s ready!” Mei’s mother knocked softly on her bedroom door.

“We’ll be down in a bit!” your friend replied, putting down her pencil to stretch out her arms. When she observed that you were still deep in reverie, Mei brought her hand on top of your head in a playful smack.

“Ow!” you lamented, rubbing the sore spot tenderly.

“Quit overthinking,” she chided as she yanked you by the wrist, forcing you to your feet. “If that guy really is your soulmate, then I’m sure he already figured it out. I say you wait it out just until he makes the first move, as all gentlemen should.”

You shot her a wary gaze. “Mei-chan, I don’t think the concept of first moves is exclusive to a single gender…”

“Fine, fine.” Mei rolled her eyes. “But all this time you’ve been the one initiating all those failed attempts. Who’s to say being a little more patient won’t work in your favor?“

There’s a preemptive pause in your conversation, and the gears click stupidly in your mind the following moment. “Mei-chan, you’re brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“To be fair,” she began as she turned the knob on the door, “even if you’re a genius on the court, you’ve always been a special kind of dumb, (Name). Always barreling down life’s challenges head first.”

“Yet you love me.” You smirked, heading out of her room ahead of her.

Mei let out a wistful sigh. “Sadly, I do.”

***

On the first day of the playoffs, you ran into an ex-boyfriend.

You anticipated crossing paths with Oikawa one way or another whenever these tournaments rolled around. It happened every year, and you long suspected that he was doing it on purpose. A better part of you insisted that it was all coincidental, but from what you’ve gleaned from his personality in the short time you were together, Oikawa could be as petty as he wanted without feeling any sort of shame. It was no different this year.

“Yoo-hoo, (Name)-chan!” Oikawa called out in that irritating sing-song voice of his, slinging an arm around your shoulder with a nonchalance that didn’t suit your ill-fitting history.

You muttered a string of profanities under your breath. Damn it all. You just wanted to buy an energy drink from the vending machine in peace. Mei, who doubled as your personal bodyguard when the cunning setter tried to talk you into dating him again, stayed behind in the locker room to help your coach with some of the matching schedules for the day. You were defenseless!

“Oh, hello, Oikawa-san,” you said through gritted teeth.

Oikawa simpered, rubbing his cheek against yours. “Say, captain-chan’s nowhere to be seen. Who knew I could get to talk to you for more than ten seconds! Lucky~”

Scoffing, you pressed your palms against his chest, roughly pushing him away. He returned your gesture with a faux-angelic pout that made you want to slap him across the face. After your break-up, you slowly began to understand why Iwaizumi was under the threat of high blood pressure all the time. This guy was insufferable!

You could almost feel a vein popping in your head. “What do you want this time, Oikawa-san?”

“Maa, maa. No need to be so formal with me.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You called me Tooru-kun back in the day. Can’t we go back to those times, (Name)-chan? Give me another chance?”

“I believe (Surname) does not want anything to do with you, Oikawa.”

The familiar sound of Ushijima’s deep-set voice made your lips part in a muted gasp. Shiratorizawa’s ace emerged from one of the adjacent halls, hands stuffed in the pockets of his track jacket. His face was unreadable as he eyed the both of you intently. Oikawa, however, wasn’t as composed.

“Tch, you always want to stick your nose in every aspect of my life, don’t you Ushiwaka?” he snapped, that casanova façade of his immediately crumbling at Ushijima’s interference. “Why don’t you try minding your own business sometime, yeah?”

Ushijima hefted an eyebrow at his uncalled-for animosity. “Why don’t you refrain from preying on unsuspecting females? I believe Iwaizumi is not fond of that behavior of yours.”

“Iwa-chan isn’t my mom,” Oikawa sneered, but his cheeks flushed at Ushijima’s blatant reproach. “Y'know what? Go on ahead. Defend (Name)-chan ‘til the day you keel over, Ushiwaka. See if I care! She doesn’t give two shits about anyone besides her soulmate anyway.”

The setter’s words lanced through your heart without a moment’s notice, making you gulp nervously. You couldn’t even dish out some unapologetic remark as he strode back to where he came from. The words eluded you regardless of how strongly you loathed Oikawa, and you only noticed you were shaking when Ushijima placed a strong hand on your shoulder.

“I suggest that you don’t listen to him,” he told you, eyes roving over your trembling form. “Oikawa has always been…difficult. I know that very well. Were you in a relationship with him in the past?”

“Yeah. We were first years. I didn’t listen when people told me that he was a notorious prick.” You sighed, leaning against the wall as you tried to calm yourself. “That naivety came and bit me in the ass one day.”

Ushijima nodded in understanding, but didn’t try to probe about the specifics of your history with Oikawa, for which you were immensely grateful for. You’re aware of the setter’s blatant hatred for him, too, so if there was anyone that could sympathize with you, it would be Ushijima.

Well, one thing he probably couldn’t relate to you with was the fact that Oikawa was one of the many people you’d mistaken for your soulmate. Once you brought the matter up, the damn pretty boy had the audacity to laugh in your face. Apparently, Oikawa didn’t harbor any soulmate-identifying marks at all. He strongly believed that the whole thing was a sham, and even mocked you for believing in such. That was one of the worst break-ups you’ve had to date, and the fact that you’re bound to keep running into him during tournaments was something you were yet to come to terms with.

“You really didn’t have to stick up for me like that, but I appreciated it.” You spared Ushijima a sideways glance once you regained your composure.

“I simply did what I felt was right.”

A soft laugh rumbled in your chest before you fed the vending machine a thousand yen bill to finally make a purchase. You threw the ace a questioning glance over your shoulder. “Do you want anything, Ushijima-san?”

There was a momentary pause as he mulled over his response. “A Pocari would suffice.”

You punched in the buttons for two Pocaris and the machine dispensed just as ordered. Ushijima crouched down to retrieve the bottles while you collected your change. Once you shoved the coins in your pocket, the ace handed you your share.

“I will make sure to repay you sometime, (Surname),” he promised as he uncapped his drink.

“I’ll be waiting,” you joked, but from the solemn sincerity on his face, you figured he took your words at face value.

In the middle of the comfortable silence, you found yourself quietly scrutinizing the ace as he helped himself to his drink. You thought it was a sight that’s a little mundane for someone with Ushijima’s reputation, but it’s not like you expected him to drink Pocari out of a jewel-encrusted goblet. There’s just something about the domineering presence he harbors that made you forget the fact that he wasn’t some god that could overwrite your existence at the snap of his fingers. He was but a teenage boy unknowingly placed on a pedestal for his unrivalled talent.  

And the same boy could very much be your soulmate.

“Ushijima-san, c-can I ask you something?” Your fingers wrung tightly around the cold plastic bottle, biting the inside of your cheek in anticipation. At the back of your mind, you could already hear Mei scolding you for your impatience. But the timing was too good, too precise, wasn’t it? Ushijima could have walked by a different hallway when Oikawa had badgered you into rekindling your relationship. Yet, he swooped in at the nick of time, like some higher order orchestrated his entrance just when you needed it.

The ace raised an eyebrow, humming a noise in acknowledgement. “What is it?”

“Um…” You exhaled a shaky breath that you hoped went past his attentive gaze. “I know this is a weird thing to ask, but—”

All of a sudden, the previously undisturbed atmosphere was filled with the sound of your obnoxious ringtone. You cursed under your breath, fumbling around your pockets to retrieve your phone.

“Where are you?!” Mei practically screamed when you accepted the call, causing you to wince at her sudden harshness. “Our game starts in five minutes!”

“Aha, sorry, Mei-chan. I ran into someone.”

“Don’t care. Get back here this instant.”

“You sound just like my—oh. She hung up on me.”

Sighing, you shoved your phone back as you cast Ushijima a sheepish look. The courage you’ve built up ebbed away like a retreating wave from the sea, but at least that analogy guaranteed that you’d return to give it another shot. “You know what? Let’s just save it for another time.” You flashed him an apologetic smile. “I have to get going.”

Ushijima nodded earnestly. “You best give it your all, (Surname).”

The send-off stunned you for about half a second. It’s probably natural for him to remember what you talked about just yesterday, but you didn’t think it would be significant enough of an interaction for the ace to bring it up once again. You swallowed thickly, jamming your clammy hands into your track pants as your cheeks warmed at his encouragement.

You were about to turn on your heels to jog back to the locker rooms, but before you could get further away, Ushijima suddenly grabbed you by the wrist. Your eyes widened at the contact; mostly because of how toasty his hand felt against your skin than the suddenness of his action. How could any human being be this warm in an indoor space—

“I’ll be seeing you at Nationals,” he declared as if his word was absolute, but it’s not like you questioned that fact. Shiratorizawa had this tournament in the bag after all. Ignoring the way your heart fluttered at his words, you nodded eagerly.

“That’s a promise!”

***

The Spring Interhigh Representative Playoffs always held more tension to it than the first Interhigh of the school year—it’s always been that way since your first year in Niiyama. Your coach said something along the lines of it being a team’s second chance for a ticket to Nationals if they weren’t fortunate enough to come out victorious in the previous tournament. Almost everyone who had been denied the privilege always came back stronger, which made defending the title of Miiyagi’s representative every year all the more challenging.

Unfortunately for them, you loved challenges.

“One touch!” you yelled once you managed to deflect the ball high into the air. Once you landed back on the ground, you shot Karasuno’s captain, Michimiya, a lopsided smile. She made a noise of frustration before settling back to position, anticipating the ball’s return.

That was close, you sighed. I was sure she was going for a feint there. Who knew good ol’ Tendou’s guess blocks could save a life.

“Nice call, (Surname)-senpai!” Amanai, one of the team’s wing spikers commended as she sent the ball barreling down the opposing team’s side of the court. Two girls in the front tried to block it out, but Amanai’s shot went through their fingers, landing cleanly on the polished floor.

The referee blew the whistle that signalled your team’s victory, and you let yourself collapse onto the floor in sheer euphoria. Those damn girls from Karasuno weren’t easy to snag a win from at all. So much for an easygoing first day.

As your teammates clamored around you for that last tip-up, you simply laughed off their praises, insisting that it was your intuition that made you act and it was Amanai who secured the win.

“That reaction time seemed awfully familiar,” Mei chuckled as she helped you to your feet.

You batted your eyes innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mei-chan.”

Your captain looked as if she was about to say some impudent remark, but then her cheery expression shifted to surprise, and then smugness. Leaning closer to your ear, she whispered. “Don’t look now, but lover boy’s watching from the stands.”

“Huh?” You tilted gaze around, only to be met with the same olive-hued gaze that never failed to mesmerize you every time.  

Ushijima didn’t display any outward reaction when you saw him sitting with his team. If anything, it’s Tendou that looked more excited that you’ve noticed Shiratorizawa watching your team’s first game.

“You totally stole my move!” the redhead squawked loudly, his shrill voice echoing through the high ceilings. “Beautiful execution though! I approve, (Name)-cha—ow!”

One of his teammates sporting ash-blond hair smacked his shoulder, blatant irritation painting his features. “Can you shut up for once?”

“Never!”

As the two prattled on, you found your gaze wandering back to their captain, who was still observing you with a somewhat unrelenting intensity. You gulped as you raised a hand to give him a small wave in greeting. The gesture had Ushijima’s eyes widening by a fraction, but he still returned it with a small nod that made your lips stretch into a minimal smile.

You haven’t told anyone about your little scuffle with Oikawa in the halls; by extension, Ushijima’s rescue given that Mei was too antsy to think of anything else before the game. Now that she’s free of that burden until tomorrow, you considered telling her about the whole thing once you got back to the locker rooms.

(But a tiny, illogical part of you wanted to keep those few moments with the ace to yourself.)

“Senpai, it’s time to go!”

Realizing that the court staff was already making preparations for the next match, you rushed back to as your team headed back to the locker rooms. And even if you were flung into a conversation as soon as you joined the fray, you knew that Ushijima’s eyes never left you for a second.

***

Naturally, Niiyama snagged the title of Miyagi’s female team representative on the last day of the tournament.

It didn’t come off as a surprise to anyone, since your school had always been the favorite to win the playoffs each year. And as you waited for the awards ceremony, your coach insisted that all of you watched the finals game for the men’s division to kill time. Your team was seated on Shiratorizawa’s side of the court, and like all veteran spectators, a majority of the audience had their hearts set on the powerhouse school’s victory, yourself included. 

Everyone trusted Ushijima to command the tides of favor whenever Karasuno gained the upper hand. He had the reliability of an unmovable ace, which made placing one’s bets on the team he’s in much easier because why wouldn’t Ushijima Wakatoshi go to Nationals on his last year of high school?

But as all kings did, Ushijima was struck with a downfall that nobody—not a single soul—had anticipated. At the end of the fifth set, Karasuno High put an end to Shiratorizawa’s long-served reign as the team who sat atop all else in Miyagi, and entitled themselves as your prefecture’s newest male team representative.

It seemed that not even the victors themselves could wrap their heads around the sudden turn of events. The impressive first year duo nearly screamed their heads off as the rest of the boys crowded that blond middle blocker who served as their first line of defense throughout the game. The poor guy had to sit out a set to get his fingers taped, too. You’ve been on the receiving end of Ushijima’s powerful spikes and serves, and you knew that putting a stop to them was no laughing matter.

But when your gaze meandered back to Shiratorizawa’s players, you could see some of them on the brink of tears. You supposed that the disappointment that made your stomach sink was nothing compared to what those who actually fought the losing battle on the court were feeling.

When both teams finished lining up to shake hands, the court was almost immediately tidied up in preparation for the awards ceremony. Your observant gaze never drifted too far from those boys in maroon. Some were letting the waterworks loose, but others retained a mask of neutrality. 

Tendou, however, didn’t seem as sullen as the rest. You weren’t sure if your eyes are deceiving you, but the redhead seemed to keep throwing glances at that blond middle blocker from Karasuno. But you couldn’t quite keep your gaze transfixed on him when Ushijima was right there, head held high like he never once lost a war.

I’ll be seeing you at Nationals.

“What the hell?” Mei articulated in disbelief, and you honestly couldn’t have said it any better.

***

Not an hour later, yours and Karasuno’s teams were lined up on the makeshift stage, grinning from ear-to-ear as the respective awards were handed out. The sporadic glare of camera flashes left spots dancing behind your eyes, but you couldn’t spare another thought at the uncomfortable sensation. Even if it wasn’t your first time heading to Nationals, the assurance that you’ll still be playing to represent the prefecture was all too surreal. You felt as if nothing could make this day any better.

“For the Niiyama Girls’ High School volleyball team, may we please call Miss (Surname) (Name) to step forward to be recognized as the Most Valuable Player.”

The audience applauded at the mention of your name, but the first reaction garnered from you was, “Say sike right now.”

“Shut up and take it, you idiot,” Mei elbowed your side. “Everyone agreed that you’re the one who practically carried the whole team.”

“Mei-chan, I couldn’t have done anything significant without you guys! Amanai scored a lot. E-even Iruka!”

“Senpai, give yourself some credit,” Amanai chided, shaking her head.

“B-But—”

“Alright, just like we practiced,” Mei intercepted before you could utter another protest. “On three. One, two—”

“Three!”

Your teammates crowded behind you in the cramped space and shoved you forward where the organizer, Sato Daiki, was already standing by Karasuno’s MVP. (He was the first year middle blocker who you found out went by Tsukishima.) You yelped at the sudden propulsion, keeping yourself from toppling off balance, and you could see that Tsukishima brat snickering none-too-discreetly.

“Congratulations,” Sato remarked with a warm smile, and you ducked your head a little so he could hang the complementary medal around your neck, muttering your sincere thanks.

In the preceding moment, you were required to pose for a photo with Sato and the men’s division’s MVP, so you flashed a grin that you surprisingly didn’t have to fake. You held the look for a few seconds, until your eyes caught a familiar figure watching from the stands.

Tendou seemed to be speaking to Ushijima about something, throwing animated gestures towards the vague direction of the ceremony in his usual Tendou fashion. His captain was composed as usual, but Ushijima looked like he was listening to his friend’s prattling, nonetheless. The sight made your toothy grin tone down into a lopsided curl of your lips.

In spite of that, the fact that Ushijima was sitting there and not standing here with you only reminded you of the promise that you didn’t really set to stone, but still looked forward to regardless.

When you sauntered back to your place in line, Mei almost immediately noticed the shift in your mood. “You alright?”

You nodded too vigorously to be considered sincere, and at the same time, your eyes managed to catch Ushijima’s even at the distance that separated the both of you. He held your gaze for a few moments before his mouth curved into a rare smile you’ve never seen him wear at all.

Forcing down the trepidation that swelled in your chest, you chuckled shakily, hoping Mei would let you off the hook just this once.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

***

Once the ceremony came to an end, you immediately bolted out of the gym before anyone could reel you back. You ran through the hallways and climbed up the staircase that led to the stands, not caring for those you rudely bumped into. That familiar surge of adrenaline thrummed in your veins as your heart practically screamed, It’s him! It’s him! It’s him!

To hell with Mei’s sentiments on patience. To hell with diving headfirst into uncertainty. You could feel it right down to your core that Ushijima Wakatoshi was your soulmate, and if you had to postpone your long-awaited union any longer, you’d lose your mind. Now that the playoffs were over, who knows when the next chance to finally own up to your suspicions will come?

As you rounded the corner that led to the destination you had in mind, you all but crash into a rigid frame. But before you could stumble to the floor, a strong arm managed to catch you mid-fall.

And that’s how you found yourself staring into the viridian green of Ushijima’s eyes up close and personal.

Though you wished to stay frozen in that moment for as long as possible, Ushijima—ever the gentleman he is—steadied you with both his hands, concern lining his features.

“Yo, (Name)-chan!” Tendou waved from behind him. “That’s funny. Weren’t you just down there a minute ago…?”

Ignoring Tendou’s question, you turned to the ace without a moment’s delay. “Ushijima-san! About the thing I wanted to ask you about the other day…”

It’s him! It’s him! It’s him!

And just like the other day, he mirrored the same expression he wore just before Mei’s phone call interrupted you. “Ah, yes. What would that be, (Surname)?”

For a moment, the considerate expression on his face beat your resistance into futility. All this time, you were too afraid to look him in the eye because you’ve always thought Ushijima’s stares were all-consuming. The fear of opening yourself up to the wrong person once more constantly loomed over your head. But for some, inexplicable reason, you knew that it wasn’t the case at all.

You inaugurated the meeting, eighteen years in the making, with a simple show of your inner wrist.

“Are you my soulmate?”

Ushijima stared closely at the two words marked on your skin. Thank you. A simple phrase that you heard on a daily basis. A phrase that cost you time and effort from people that didn’t deserve both.

And it’s the same words that Ushijima graced you with when you first spoke to each other.

It’s him! It’s him! It’s him!

White silence saturated the air for a moment, for a second, for a minute—until your hope steadily dissolved back into dread. Why was the curiosity in his eyes morphing into an inscrutable stare that you didn’t want to be on the receiving end of? Why did he look like he was about to—

“I am sorry,” Ushijima murmured with a discretion that forced apart the ridges of your breaking heart. “I believe you have the wrong person.”

“Oh,” was your automatic response, like the one word you could use to summarize the crushing dejection you felt was a simple oh.

You pulled your wrist back, hiding it behind you as your nails dug into your skin. You tilted your head back, praying he didn’t see the tears glinting from your eyes.

“Sorry, sorry.” You hastily wiped away the evidence of your rejection. “I should be used to this by now, hahaha! I mean, I get it wrong all the time, so…” Your voice trailed off when you noticed Ushijima still gazing at you with that irritatingly diplomatic tact of his. “Just—forget I said anything. I’m really sorry to have bothered you, Ushijima-san.”

Before Ushijima could say anything in return, and before you could make a bigger fool of yourself, you turned back to the direction you came from, and left.

***  

The drizzle of the shower head beating against your face easily masked the salty tears that slid across your cheeks. Each drop against your skin came in consistent intervals that only served to branch off the liquid emotion streaming from your eyes.

You wondered, if Mei had seen you now, would she still ask why you were crying? No, you weren’t crying. You were just taking a hard-earned shower after a long day. There’s definitely nothing more to it!

(You were so sure. You were so, irrevocably certain with him.

But you were also sure with Oikawa, with Yukihira, with Takahashi, with Watanabe, with—)

Your fist flung, and it hurt—smashing against the wall. You felt a wave of pain electrify through your nerves, jolting your arm, and yet it was nothing. You felt the hit, but nothing else. Just the water dripping down your hair. Just the shower clearing into view.

“No.”

You stared at the wall as you took a few deep breaths—in through your nose and out through your mouth.

“No more..” You turned the shower knob. You didn’t feel the thumping of the water on your face anymore. The tears have gone and so did the weight of it all.

It was time to move onto better things.

***

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