#yesterday was exhausting in a “worse things happen at sea” way

[gothyanki]

My preferred approach to loving widely-hated characters in fandom is to ignore the hate and focus on making positive posts/seeking out other people who like them… BUT also I’m still holding a grudge wrt the general vitriolic reaction to my girl Velanna when Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening (2010) came out. S t i l l.

[syndxlla]

Part ten of the More To Love Series

Summary: The ball is tomorrow night and preparations are in full swing in the Mandalorian Palace. In desperate need of a break from all of the Masquerade planning, you get away from the palace for a few hours. This gives you a chance to reflect on your relationship with the Knight, learn more about his past, and grow closer with Koska.

Word Count: 10.9k, NO ‘Y/N’

Warnings: SMUT (handjob, grinding, this is like actually sort of gross if you over think it so just don’t over think it thanks <3), THIS IS EXPLICIT, 18+ CONTENT, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. Swearing. Mentions of: blood, scars, fighting, hand-to hand combat.

IMPORTANT PLEASE READ: insight of recent events surrounding my tumblr, I have added an additional in-text warning for the smut scenes. This will continue for future chapters for those who do not wish to read the explicit scenes of More to Love.

Author’s Note: HEY, it’s been a little while, huh? Happy to be back. THANK YOU FOR 1k FOLLOWERS HOLY CRAP!! You all mean so much to me and the support of this fic is unlike anything I could have ever asked for! Also... the smut in this gets,, nasty. Like not that bad it isn’t super kinky or needs lots of warnings it’s just... like gross if you think too hard about that so do me a favor and don’t overthink it haha. OKAY LOVE YOU ENJOY

Part Nine

“No, If you keep that elbow down it will throw off your balance.”

“Okay, what if I hold it like this.”

“No it will get more tired faster.”

“Well how long do I have to keep it up like this?”

“Until the song ends!” You sigh, your fingers coming up to hold your eyebrow out of frustration. You and the Knight have been in the library for nearly an hour trying to learn how to waltz together and if you didn’t know any better, you’d guess he had two left feet. He was starting to get the hang of it, though. Slowly but surely and through a lot of trial and error but you don’t have very much room to talk because an hour before this one, he was just as frustrated with you because you couldn’t swing at him with nearly enough power needed to make some damage on anyone. This is how you’ve spent your last two evenings with the knight. The two of you sarcastically bullying one another in learning the opposite’s art. It was already Friday, the ball was tomorrow and you weren’t sure if he was going to be able to pull it together in time. The worst part is that you haven’t had anytime privately with him to do your... usual antics. There was always someone with you, usually Korkie or Koska, or the dance and fighting practice took up too much time to really have any fun.

The palace has been bustling the last two days. Every servant has had a task they were always doing, there was no down time for them which meant lots of downtime for the Royals. If there was no one to set up tea, then there would be no tea, simple as that.

Because of the high workload put on the staff of the palace, each royal has been subject to dinner in their own rooms alone this week, which was a dream come true for you. Dinner was your least favorite time of the day because of how painful it was to get through socially. And it also meant you got to spend more time with your own thoughts. You still aren’t sure what to do about the marriage, especially since you’ve admitted to yourself that you think you are falling for the beskar-clad knight who stands watch outside your door.

Even Soniee has been spending less time inside your quarters pampering you (you could really use a bubble bath). At all hours of the day, there was either a team of butlers carrying large bouquets of flowers down ornate hallways, a chef interrupting your dress fitting with Soniee and Koska to have you try another flower-flavored mousse, or an immediate meeting with the Queen to learn about some of your guests who will be at the masquerade and how to properly greet them. One time yesterday, you were asked to review the lanterns they picked out for the garden decorations. You were so indifferent to the ones they picked that the servants actually sent you back inside out of frustration. Along with the controlled chaos of preparations, the mask making has still left you feeling guilty. Just this morning you caught a glimpse of Koska’s shaky hands that had clearly been pricked by one too many needles while sewing jewels into the Queen’s mask. You must have apologized too much because she eventually got snarky and asked you to quit saying sorry about it. As much as you would like to dance with your knight with others looking on, you weren’t sure if it was worth all the pain and labor others were putting themselves through for it.

Party planning was exhausting, and on top of all of it, you needed to teach the most uncoordinated man in the kingdom how to waltz. It genuinely baffled you how he was able to be so methodical and perfect in hand-to hand combat and in bed but can barely hold his own in situations such as these. There was something charming about that flaw, however.

Now, the golden sunlight of the aging day was pouring into the towering windows of the Mandalorian library. It had made the room warm, and showed just how valuable the knight’s dark skin was as his bare hands soaked in the rays. You caught yourself staring at them a few too many times, which to your dismay, he caught you doing.

“You’re staring again.” He says while the two of you are practicing the basic 1, 2, 3 waltz step. Your eyes jump back to the emotionless visor of the beskar helmet which looked down at your face. You didn’t even realize you were looking at your hand holding out to the right, studying the way his knuckles looked and how clean his fingernails were.

“Sorry… It’s just that dancing is usually an emotional thing, you’re supposed to play off of eachother I suppose.” You shrug, stopping the dance. You realized you had been searching for something to play off of, anything, even if it’s just the calloused fingers of a hard worker.

You wouldn’t think the two of you would be so far behind and underprepared but for a majority of these rehearsals you’ve been the one leading as he figures it out. You know how bad it would look if you were the one leading tomorrow, and you’re starting to lose hope that you’re going to pull this off. You had wished you started teaching him earlier, but knew that he would have never agreed before now.

“Princess, you do realize that you’re probably still not going to see my face if we dance tomorrow.” He drops your hands. You sigh, you did know it, you just didn’t want to admit it.

“I know… when do you take it off?” You couldn’t remember if you had asked this already. Maybe you were out of line for asking, but a piece of you didn’t care, you deserved to know.

He was quiet, he always was when you asked him something personal. Maybe he was hoping you would get the idea by now…

“When I eat, when I sleep… sometimes around my son. Sometimes around other guards.” He said as he walked towards one of the library windows. You followed him, a few footsteps behind. He stopped at the glass, his reflection disturbing the pristine scene outside. You could see the beach from this window, not as well as in other parts of the castle, but the horizon of the Mandalorian sea was still in view. Your reflection came up behind his. You could see the exhale of his lungs from the shift in armor weight.

“I understand if you never want to show me.” You said. You didn’t really believe that, but you did respect him, and because of that you had to accept the reality that he may never show you. Maybe you were just trying to convince yourself that. You walk a little further to him and stand up on your tippy-toes so that you may rest your chin on his shoulder, looking out at the world below. It was so peaceful from up here. You’ve only left palace grounds once in the last two weeks and you desperately want to again. Being cooped up inside an oil painting was getting exhausting. “I want to go somewhere.” You mutter, your arms wrapping around his waist to hug him from behind: a pure and innocent act of affection.

“What?” His helmet turns to the side just a little bit so that you might hear him better. “Like… the Garden? The Parlor?”

“No!” You chuckle against his pauldron, “Outside, I want to get out of the palace again.”

“Did you forget what happened last time we went out?” He asks meditatively. “We can’t risk anything happening to you before tomorrow, The Queen would be furious, and even worse, Koska would be too.”

“Of course I didn’t forget! I’ll have the scar to always remind me” You giggle at his remark. “And besides, I-I want to go to the water.” You step out from behind him to look out at and gesture to the gentle waves against the golden beach. “I’ve been on a sandy beach before.” You clear your throat.

“We… might be able to arrange that. How about we go on Sunday? After the ball?” He attempts to negotiate.

“Or we could go now? There’s no formal dinner tonight.” You suggest.

“Your parents are coming in tonight, along with a number of other guests, not to mention Grand General Vizsla, all the Royal Guard is to be presented to him at nine.” He groans, but you were determined to convince him. You really needed a break from all of the planning, fittings and tastings.

“So? It’s barely five! We can just go for a little while!” You say as you look at the grandfather clock that sits nestled between two bookcases. You weren't feeling very optimistic, you doubted he would not budge, he’s always been so stubborn. “I can repay you…” You bite your lip. You were also incredibly horny and remember overhearing a maid back home talk about sex on the beach. It had always excited you.

He sighs again.

“Please? For me? I seriously deserve a break, so do you.” You reach out to stroke his hand. You knew that would probably work, it has before.

“Fine-“

“Really!?”

“Yes, but we have to tell Koska just so they don’t think we’re missing again.” He turns to walk out of the library. You silently congratulate yourself on getting the most unmovable and obedient man in the galaxy to go against his orders and do what you want. You happily skip behind him. “It takes a while to get all the way down to the beach so we should probably take a horse.” He says on the move. “Do you know how to ride?”

“I’m royalty, of course I do… do you?” You revising a teasing eyebrow.

He scoffs at your question, “There is much you do not know about me.”

“Well, you make it sort of hard for me to learn.” You roll your eyes playfully. He elbows you in the side, knocking you off your balance. You attempt to do the same to him, nudging him right back but not even getting the boy to budge and hurting your funny bone a little against the Beskar.

It takes you two a few minutes of complete silence and portrait-perfect stature to get all the way down the palace into the servants quarters. The only other time you had been in these narrow, stone hallways in the ground level of the Mandalorian Castle was earlier this week after Korkie begrudgingly led you back to your quarters in a wet peasant gown and a stinging bicep.

By the time the knight and yourself had made it down here, he was leading you through the maze of corridors, past helmetless knights who all nodded out of respect as they passed you, and into a wooden-arch. The room you had entered into must have been the servant’s common room, because it was about the size of the dining room. A candle-lit, wooden chandelier hung over four long tables, unlike the glass and oil-lamp chandeliers in the rest of the palace. A large fireplace burned on one wall, illuminating the room more and several small, gothic-arch windows towards the ceiling allowed warm light to pour into the cozy hall. Several handmaidens bejeweled masks at one table, twice as many sewed the bases of the coverings at another. One table showcased all of the finished designs, which depicted extravagant bird beaks, colorful fox and wolf snouts, towering cat and rabbit ears, ornate peacock tails, sharp antlers and horns on some and even incredible tusks on a few. They were all breathtaking, and while you felt guilty for making so many staff members work double-time, you appreciated their handy-work in making your dream come true.

The fourth and final table was mostly empty, a few elderly and child servants ate potato soup at it, and one maid cleaned her finger-nails at the opposite end. Everything was so simple and normal, it was such a display of controlled chaos that almost made you forget about the corruption in Mandalore… almost.

A sharp whistle rang through the room, and immediately, everyone dropped what they were doing, stood up swiftly from their seats on the long benches that paralleled each table, and turned to look at you before bowing deeply and diligently. They hadn’t even noticed you were there at first and interrupting their normalcy was not what you intended to do, but then you caught sight of who it was that sang the whistle. Koska Reeves was walking through the bowed, silent heads to you and the Knight. She looked exhausted, her hair was down and over her shoulders instead of pinned up in the intricate braids she usually wore them in when she was around royalty. The amount of fly-always was distracting but you couldn’t blame her, she would not disappoint the Queen with her work, even if that meant looking a little rough and disheveled.

“What’s the meaning of this? All royalty is supposed to be approved before coming in here.” She says to your knight chivalrously, then turns to you, “This is no sight for you, princess.” Something told you that she wasn’t only referring to the activities taking place in the common room. “I am sorry for our disorder.”

“No worries, Lady Reeves. There’s no need to apologize. I am most impressed by the work done on the masks for tomorrow.” You gesture to the table with the completed designs.

She sighs and smiles, “Thank you.” She nods before turning around, “Carry On!” She calls out to the room and everyone returns to normal as if nothing out of the ordinary happened, as if you weren’t even there. There was something you liked about that, something that reminded you that even though you have a lucky bloodline, you’re human too, and not all that different from the workers in this very room. Their daily routine was fascinating to you. “What do you two want?” She hushes her voice and drops her “right-hand woman to the queen”, first lady-in-waiting and head of the Mandalorian royal staff persona. She’s now the same brash friend you two shared.

“We want to go out for a while, it’ll just be a few hours but we knew we needed to tell someone in case anyone notices that we’re missing.” The Knight nods, explaining the situation. She raises a questionable eyebrow.

“Absolutely not, we cannot risk anything happening to her before tomorrow night.” Your heart drops.

“That’s what I said, but she’s incredibly convincing.” He shrugs, tilting his head just enough to show the extra bit of emotion. Koska looks between the two of you, her hands perched firmly on her hips. You caught sight of her hands again, which were now bandaged tightly with the same white gauze that she wrapped your cut arm with earlier this week. You wondered if that was done to dress bleeding wounds, keep the shakiness from over-working and late nights in control, or a dreadful mix of both. A terrible feeling told you it was the third.

“Vizsla is going to be here.” She raises an eyebrow, her intimidating demeanor hasn’t gone away even after she’s become aware of your little secret (well, actually massive, life-altering, “how-the-hell-am-I-gonna-fix-this?” secret). “If you aren’t here, that could result in a court-martial from the Queen herself.”

“Sounds tempting.” He replies.

“You and I both know what’s going to happen to you and your little boy if you step out of line, even once, which is why I’m guarding your scandle so close to my heart.” Her voice get’s real quiet when she says that, and he shifts his weight. Your heart drops, what in the world could she mean by that? “You know what could happen to you if I accidentally slip something, that’s why I won’t cover for you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” You whisper. She glances at you and then right back to him.

“Wow, you really haven’t told her much, have you?” Koska’s arms move from her hips into a fold over her chest. He doesn’t respond.

“Told me much about what?” You ask, worried about whatever was going on that you didn’t know about. Every day you’re reminded about how much of a stranger he really is to you.

“All she knows is that I had an old job, that’s all she needs to know.” He bites back, his voice equally hushed.

“If you’re fucking her, she deserves to know a lot more, but that’s just my opinion.” Koska chuckles once and you blush red hot. “I mean, at least tell her your name.”

“Why is this happening here? Now?” He gestures to the very crowded room. “Look, we just want to go down to the beach for an hour at the most. We’ll be back long before Vizsla gets here. You won’t have to cover for us, I swear.” He tries changing the subject but your mind is racing with the possibilities and confusion of the conversation you were just welcomed into.

Koska looks between the two of you a few times again, carefully considering what’s on the table and the risk. “Fine, one horse. I mean it, only one because if two are gone, someone will notice and then I’m gonna have to do exactly what I told you I wouldn’t do and what you said I won't have to: cover for your ass. Get out of here.” She beckons her head to a door that leads outside as a smile spreads across your cheeks. “Djarin! Don’t be late!” She calls out as you begin walking. That’s the second time you have heard that word, both times uttered from Koska’s mouth. Something wanted you to believe that might be his name but you were far too scared to find out for your own. You would try to remember it this time.

The knight leads you out of the room, and you watch Koska over your shoulder as you follow, studying the way she stood still immediately after you walk away, taking a few deep, sharp breaths and then promptly returning to her work. You wondered if she was tired, remembering that not everyone who lives in the Mandalorian Palace has the same relaxing lifestyle that you have.

Despite the aging daylight, it was still deathly hot. The heat of summer bled onto your shoulders, which were still partially covered due to the scarring cut in your muscle. The clothing only added to the heat. The part of the Castle grounds you were were foreign to you. They weren’t the beautiful, lush and trimmed gardens or breezy courtyards you usually spend your afternoons in, no. It was dark, the tall height of the palace shading the courtyard where knights sparred and a pair of little servant girls chased one another. One wall that lined the courtyard was the horse stables, and another was a blacksmith. The golden light shone through the stables, and you were able to spot the four white horses that took you and Korkie to Keldabe earlier this week despite the beasts being backlit.

“You can ride, I’ll just walk.” He says as he guides you to a palomino, a tall horse with a Caramel body and pure white mane.

“Are you sure?” You ask, not wanting him to have to walk.

“Of course.” He says as he mindlessly bridles the horse, petting him on the nose a few times. “Do you prefer a saddle?” He asks. You nod, and he swings the seat over the back of the steed.

“Does this horse have a name?” You ask, reaching your hand out to pet his neck a few times. The horse nickers at your touch.

“He likes you.” The Knight chuckles. You smile at the statement, and continue to stroke the soft hair on the neck. “Clove.” He says, his voice velvet and full of caring. The knight knew this horse. They had a bond. “Here.” He holds his hand up for you to hoist yourself onto the saddle. You were in no way dressed for riding, and the saddle wasn’t even a side-riding seat, but you would make it work. You knew that on the palace grounds you would have to ride side-saddle, it’s customary, and how you learned. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t ride regularly. The horses back home in Corellia were massive beasts, animals suited for harsh winters and heavy amounts of snow, thick fur covers their ankles so that they can trudge through deep snow and pull sleighs. The Mandalorian horses were far more majestic, more like show horses than work horses. Clove was gentle, though, that was something that wasn’t common for the strong horses up north. He didn’t move a muscle or bat an eyelash as you heave yourself onto his back, adjusting yourself to sit properly, the knight’s hand holding yours tightly as you positioned yourself and then rearranging the heavy skirt of your dress to properly cover your legs. His plan grazes your shin as he does it, and your eyes immediately catch the visor of his beskar helmet. You liked to think he was looking at your eyes, too. The moment is so still, time freezing for half a second.

He starts to walk the horse out of the opposite side of the stable and into the field behind the palace. You could see the tree line of the garden from here. The bridle was tightly wrapped around his hand as he led the two of you out of the palace and into the hot, hot sun. This was the first time you’ve ridden a horse in a very long time, and you had almost forgotten how much you loved it. A cheesy smile was on your face, and your eyes cycled from the mane of the horse, the shoreline ahead, the back side of the ornate castle and the top of the helmet of the knight. The sun reflected off of the beskar, causing a bright illumination to shine on the bodice of your gown. He walked methodically and quietly, and you wanted to start a conversation with him but it didn’t feel right.

Comfortable silence is often overlooked, something taken for granted that is really only shared between two trusting people. You aren’t sure if you’ve ever experienced a genuine comfortable silence with anyone before. Being a royal has a lot of “fine print”, one of which being that no one ever shut up. Korkie isn’t the only self-centered, talkative royal in this world. The thing that sets Korkie aside from the rest is the fact that you’ll have to deal with it intimately for the rest of your life.

There was something wildly attractive about the introvert by your side. Because he was few with words, it caused you to seek them out, and cherish what little you did get. He was warming up to you, opening up and every time you get a moment alone with him, he says a little more. Your conversations now are very different from that first night in the castle when he helped you untie your corset. All he said originally was “Goodnight, Princess”, and now he’s telling you about the stars and teaching you how to fight and defend yourself. The idea that it’s happened too fast has crossed your mind several times, but you considered that when you’re alone with someone almost all day, every day, you’re bound to get to know one another quicker than usual. However, you’ve also been afraid that you came off too harsh, maybe you jumped into it all too fast and overwhelmed him. What if he’s only complying to the relationship because he’s obligated to through his duty? You had to admit that there were a number of insecurities surrounding your friendship, you would be lying to yourself if you didn’t think that. Maybe you felt that way because you relied so heavily on him to get away from the other boy in your life who you can’t escape no matter how hard you try. Was it entirely possible that the knight feels about you the way you feel about Korkie? That very thought made you sick, your stomach twisting and preventing you from enjoying the beautiful landscape ahead.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. He noticed that you had tensed up. You silently curse yourself for not hiding it better.

“What?” Your look down at him, forcing a false smile. He was looking up at you now, his hand resting on your knee. Your eyes move from where he holds you and back up to the visor on his helmet. “Oh… nothing.” You hum.

“You are a fool if you think you can hide anything from me.” He tilts his head and your cheeks burn with blush. You sigh, knowing you should tell him. The chances are that expressing these concerns to him might give you a piece of mind… or they could do the exact opposite. You aren’t sure if you can take the emotional weight of resenting two men who you admire. You admire them for entirely different reasons, however. You admire Korkie for his dedication to his kingdom, and you admire that he’s genuinely trying his best. However, you admire the Knight for his kindness, his patience, his protection. You admire his velour voice, his plush lips, and the way he touches you. You admire that he’s a father, that he’s split his dedication between his duty to his kingdom and his duty to his son. You admire his deep chuckle, and the way he kisses you, the way you can see him laugh when you shoot him silly faces during dinner. You both admired and was frustrated by his obedience to his creed. He kept promises, no matter how life-altering they may be.

As you reflect on all the reasons he meant anything to you, you felt a sense of peace. It was better, the feeling in your stomach, that is. You decide it is right to tell him, you recall your governess explaining to you that all good relationships are built on enthusiastic communication, and you wanted your relationship with the Knight to be considered ‘good’. You sigh and then speak up, “I just…” You take a sharp, deep breath in the middle of your sentence before speaking up again, “just lots of insecurities, I suppose.” You shrug.

“Insecure- about what?” He asks.

“Everything, but especially us.” You didn’t really want to have this conversation, but you knew you had to.

“May I ask why?” His tone was sincere.

You aren’t sure how to reply at first. “Is it too fast? Am I too much?” You ask after careful consideration of what you were going to bring up first.

“What? No.” You think this was the first time he had ever replied immediately after you ask him something. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know-“

“Yes you do… tell me.” He reassures.

“Our personalities are different, you’re quiet and stoic…”

“Is that… bad?”

“No! No, not at all. Royals just aren’t that, and I worry if we’re compatible enough. And don’t mistake me, I admire that about you, but I fear I’m too much for you.” You sigh, shaking your head. Clove nickers again as if he’s listening in on your conversation and chiming in. He doesn’t respond right away which you’ve gotten used to, but if it was any other situation you wouldn’t be overthinking it. You can’t take the silence anymore and speak up, “And there’s the added factor that I’m totally cheating on Korkie with you-”

“-If I thought you were too much, do you think I would let you teach me how to dance?” He interrupts. The words halt in your mouth, and you look at him almost dumbfounded. “Or do you think I would be teaching you how to defend yourself? Fucking you on a royal sofa in an un-locked room? Risking my title to take you to the beach?” He almost sounded… angry? Had you offended him for thinking that? Your legs tensed up on the horse, and you regretted everything you had said. He did have a point, you hadn’t really thought of that.

“I… suppose you’re right.” You mutter.

“I don’t have to be doing any of this,” He grabs your hand, holding it in his and uses his other hand to halt the horse. The three of you pause in the field between the beach and the castle. There had been a downgrade so you were mostly hidden but you could still the upper-towers of the palace. He looks up and you, and you find yourself wishing you could see his eyes again. “But I do because I’m… fond of you.” It sounds like he’s having a hard time getting the words out, but that isn’t very uncommon for him. Your heart flares up, this was the first time he had ever admitted anything like that.

“W-what?” You ask, sounding like a fool.

“I know, it’s crazy. How could a halfwit like myself deserve a Princess like you?” He chuckles under his breath. “Maybe the elf laid a spell on me, I don’t know. But I do know that ever since I was given the duty of protecting you, my life has been different.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “I’ve… I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and I don’t know what it is but I-I-“ You smile fondly, and use his hand to hop off the horse. You bring your hands up to hold the back of his neck.

“It’s not a spell.” You whisper. “I feel it too.”

“Then it’s a spell on both of us.”

“Maybe.” You move your hands up to his helmet, desperately wanting to remove it, but you remember what you told yourself the other day. If he wishes to show you his face, it should be his choice, he deserves to be the one to take the beskar off. You would respect that. Instead, you just run your fingertips along the lip of the helmet, looking into the visor enchantingly. “Then it would be a wonderful spell.”

His hands find their way to your waist, hugging you to his chest. You rest or head on his shoulder and just close your eyes, feeling his chest plate move with each breath. It’s so still, the summer breeze softly runs through the tall grass. You can hear the waves gently hugging the beach, and the two of you just stand there like that. Completely alone, the only companionship being one another and a mindlessly-grazing horse. No one to interrupt. No doors to lock. No Princes to lie to. No thieves to fight. Just the two of you. If you could stay in that moment for the rest of your life, you would. In the earlier days of your relationship, you used to worry you wouldn’t like what his face looked like, worried that he might be unattractive to you. But every selfish desire you had about his physical appearance dissolved with the wind. No matter what he looked like, or what his past was, or what his name was, you didn’t care. You didn’t care because he cared for you, and you cared for him, too.

Before you can soak in the moment any longer, you’re swiftly grabbing his wrist, and tugging him towards the beach. The stillness of the moment is lost, but you’re quickly giggling as he’s chasing you down the small slope to the beach. You pull your skirt up as far as you can so you don’t trip on it, and find yourself being unable to slow down before the hill meets the shore. The soil slowly becomes more and more sandy, and your feet are bolting against uneven land towards teal, clear water. Before you can reach the ocean, however, strong hands are wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against the Knight’s chest. You can hear the low rumble of chuckling in his throat, and you have the biggest, dorkiest smile of all time on your face. He spins the two of you around a few times before setting you back down on the beach.

You’re out of breath from running, and your hair is already untidy from the unexpected change of direction. The wind blows it just softly, letting it pull away from your face and neck. He tucks one rogue strand behind your ear, and then cups your face. You hadn’t even realized he’s been gloveless this entire time. You close your eyes and rest your cheek into him. You turn your head ever-so-slightly to kiss his palm, laying a sweet and innocent peck to his calloused skin.

You wonder if he’s hot with all that armor on. If you were too warm with a dress, only he knows what it’s like to have to spend summers so formally.

He’s the one to pull away, walking towards the water. You follow him, and the two of you stand against the tide. You kick your shoes off and pull your dress up again. Stepping into the water. You giggle at the tickle of the sand and smile at the feeling of the warm water against your ankles. He watches you fondly with his arms crossed. The water in Corellia is never this warm, and you throw your head back in bliss, breathing in the salty air. This was the happiest you had ever been since you arrived in Mandalore. The break from all the rules and customs was very needed, and you soaked in the sound of the waves, a distant call of a gull, and the wind keeping your hair out of your face. The best part was the fact that you were experiencing it with the Knight. There is no other person you would rather spend this memory with. You bite your lip and close your eyes and you never want to leave, you want to stay here forever. You hear the sound of metal clinking behind you, and something heavy hitting the sand. You turn to look at the Knight, who had discarded most of his armor. His boots have been carefully set next to one another, and beside them were his pauldrons, wrist guards, thigh plates and breastplate. The chainmail was the next thing to be removed, leaving him in only the dark-brown underclothes. His trousers were heavy duty, covered in various pockets and made out of thick material, but his tunic was a thin material, still long sleeved, but flowy, allowing the fresh, summer breeze to run through the fabric. The two items of clothing were held together by a pair of black suspenders, and the entire ensemble made him oh so… human.

You had only seen him with all his armor on before, and witnessing his shell being removed was both humbling and inspiring. The armor added quite a bit of bulk to his stature, it rounded out his shoulders, boosted his posture, and broadened him out. That was the first thing you noticed about him on the first day you arrived, he was ample in size and it made you feel so primal and safe. Despite his smaller stature without the armor, he wasn’t one bit less attractive to you. He was still the same guy who you were slowly falling for and didn’t even know it. But as he cuffed up his trousers and rolled back his shoulders, you felt so comfortable in his presence. He wasn’t just a mass of armor and creeds and rules, no, he was just a man. He was a single father, a guy who doesn’t know the first thing about dancing, and a boy born across the world in the Nevarro frontier. He was just a man.

You couldn’t stop the warm feeling in your chest that came with this thought. Everything about him was far more simple than you initially thought.

He walked towards you, and you held out your hand for him to take. He laces his fingers with yours as he steps into the shallow water with you. Your dress drops, dipping into the water and getting wet but you can’t even be mad about it. Your smile is big as his hand tightly grasped yours, the two of you looking out at the horizon.

“When I was a boy-” he begins, his voice quiet, “I wanted to live on the sea. Join a ship crew and travel the waters. There was always something so adventurous about that thought.” He shares. You turn to look at him as he speaks, studying the contour of the helmet with your eyes.

“What stopped you?” You ask, not entirely sure if he would share, but this time he was the one to start the conversation, and you felt like he might this time.

He sighs, you see it, he turns to look at you, the two of you staring at one another as the temperature slowly dropped with the sun on the horizon. “I was orphaned when I was only five.” He shrugs, your heart breaks. “It was one of the Mandalorian wars that caused it.”

You can’t imagine what it’s like having to serve a kingdom so intimately when they were responsible for the death of your family. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze, letting him know that you’re here for him. “I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“It’s not your fault, it was so long ago I don’t really remember it.” He looks down at the water.

“Thank you, for sharing that with me.” You smile apologetically. You really did appreciate that he felt comfortable enough to share something so serious with you. While you were grateful that he had begun to open up to you, it still didn’t answer any of the questions about Mandalore’s past, and what Koska was referring to a few days ago. It didn’t tell you what his past job was and why he’s serving the royal family now. However, you supposed it didn’t really matter, not right now, not today.

After a little minute of listening to the waves, he reaches down into the water, picking up a flat, thin rock. He runs his pointer finger along the edge, outlining the shape before hatching it into the space between his index finger and thumb, reeling back, and flicking it out so it hopped over the water’s surface seven or eight times before falling in. You looked at him enchanted, like he had just expressed a magic trick to a bright-eyed child.

“How did you do that?” You ask in awe.

“You’ve never seen anyone skip a rock?” He asks. You slowly shake your head. You’ve been cooped up inside a wintry castle your entire life, of course you haven’t.

“Teach me.” You say a little too forcefully. He chuckles and looks down at the sand, looking for a pebble that might work. He bends down eventually, and picks out a similar looking rock to the original.

“So, you want a rock that’s thin and flat, like this one.” He shows you the sediment. You reach your hand out, taking it and outlining the edge of the stone with your finger similar to how he did. He walks behind you, sloshing in the water but eventually gaining position. He wraps his left arm around your waist, and cups your right hand which holds the rock in his. “Now, don’t throw it quite yet, okay?”

“Alright.”

“You’re gonna flick your wrist like this,” he motions both of your hands at the same time, pulling back and then shooting forward quickly. He does it two or three times before speaking up again. “You’ll use your pointer finger to pull back like the trigger on a crossbow, it will give the rock enough spin that it stays on top of the water.” He makes you do the motion along with him a few times again. “Your shoulders will draw back almost like you’re pulling back an arrow on a bow.” Again, he does the motion with you, your back flush to his chest. You admired that he was able to relate everything to weaponry. He definitely knew his way around combat, that was apparent to you. “Then, you add all three motions together, aim for the horizon, and-“ he pulls back with you and before you know it, the rock is spiraling out of your hand and onto the surface of the ocean. It doesn’t skip, though, and instead plops right into the water.

You frown and look back at him. “What did I do wrong?” You ask, you knew he would know what needed to change.

“You didn’t flick your finger enough. Try again.” He pulls another stone out with a grunt, and holds you against his body to pull back and send another rock out. This one skips once before plopping into the water again. You sigh out, frustrated. “Here, try without me.” He says after handing you a third flat stone. You carefully practice the motion once, desperately wanting to impress him. You then pull back and give it everything you got, only for the stone to plop in without skipping at all again.

“Ugh, lemme try again.” You say angrily. You can hear him laughing at you, but you ignore it, ready to try again and determined to get it right this time.

You must have thrown four more rocks after that with no results. Each time he tried giving you just a little more advice about different things, “Follow through” or “You had too much spin that time”. You were starting to get really frustrated, having never had to really work for anything in your life before, and you knew he was starting to have a hard time finding flat rocks. You would not give up on this.

“Maybe we can try again next time-“

“No.” You say forcefully, “We do not leave this beach until I skip a damn rock, so if you want to be back in time for your evaluation with Vizsla, I suggest you find me another rock.” You raise an eyebrow as you pull out your diplomatic royal voice. He holds his hands back in defense and then tosses you the stone he already had waiting for you. You sigh when you catch it, taking a deep breath and remembering all your training. Don’t spin too much, follow through, add all three motions together, have faith.

You pull back the stone, praying that it will all go according to plan because you aren’t sure how much longer you can take failure. You pick out your target with your eyes before adding together all the advice given to you and sending it. You can hardly believe your eyes when you see it skip at least five times over the water. You cheer out in accomplishment and look over at the Knight, smiling big and triumphant. He runs through the water to you, shouting with you.

“I knew you could do it!” He grabs your waist, congratulating you. You giggle out of achievement. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He asks.

You roll your eyes and playfully punch his arm (which luckily this time was not covered by pain-inflicting chainmail). “A lot easier than having to dodge your hits.” You admit.

“I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just a rock skip?” You wonder why he would be proud of you for that and ask yourself if you really are that pathetic.

“Yes but you put your mind to it and did it! I know some guys in the royal guard who would have given up on their third try, but you didn’t!”

“I was just trying to impress you.” You sheepishly chuckle.

“We’ll consider myself: Impressed.” He laughs and you blush.

“They don’t teach royals that.”

“Well of course not, I learned how to do that from the guy who took me in after my parents died. You picked it up much faster than I did.” He nods and you smile again.

The two of you catch your breath from the exuberant laughing, but you aren’t able to enjoy the still moment because all too quick it all comes crashing down quickly when he’s pushing you into the water. It isn’t very deep, but the unexpected soak makes you yelp out in surprise. Your initial reaction is to be frustrated, but you can hear him chuckling by your side and you can’t help but mischievously smiling in response. He’s standing, still dry with a hand over his stomach as he laughs at you. You roll your eyes before reaching up to pull him in with you, he yelps out stupefied as he’s splashing down into the tide next to you. You laugh out at him, sitting up in the water which is about waist deep. He wipes some water away from his visor and then splashes you, swatting a handful of the ocean at your face. Your laughing immediately halts from a mouthful of salt water. Your slight makeup washes off, and your hair is starting to get wet, too. You look over at him with a frown before copying his action and spraying him right back. He laughs at you, and you remember that you can’t win this. He has a helmet to keep his eyes clear from the water. You groan out of frustration, and wipe your eyes dry. He’s just looking at you, panting. His clothes were soaked now. You crawl to be closer to him in the water, which thank goodness it wasn’t too cold because you’d be rushing to get out, but the summer weather made it enjoyable to just sit there together.

[SMUT BEGINS HERE]

You’re next to him, running your fingers lightly up and down his right arm, looking at him fondly. He catches his breath, and brings his wet hand up to cup your face again. You close your eyes, hoping he takes the hint, which he does because a few seconds have your eyes are closed, his arm his pulling away from your touch against it and his lips are pressing into yours. You can tell he completely took the helmet off this time, which means he would take his time kissing you instead of a quick peck to shut you up.

The two of you sit in the water of the Mandalorian Ocean, both of his hands reaching up to hold you as he kisses each eyelid as if to say “keep ‘em closed”, before moving to your lips passionately. His left hand holding your cheek while his right hand finds its place on the back of your neck, pulling you into him. You breathe deeply as he practically devours you, his lips moving hungrily. Your hands find their way to his thighs in the water, running your palms up and down the strong muscle, making sure to take notice of the healing wound on his upper-thigh. Your hands eventually find their way to the waistband of his pants, running your fingers under them to pull out the tuck of the tunic. Fingernails come out of the water and up soft abs that flinch at the stroke. It’s hard to work around the suspenders, but you’re able to still run your hands over his torso, getting to know his body for the first and hopefully not the last) time. He has a few scars, you can feel the fresh tissue under your fingers and wonder what caused them. He’s still kissing you, his left hand moves down to hold your jaw and you keep your eyes tightly shut out of fear of this ending too quickly. The kissing noises are obscene, wet and needy amongst the sound of the waves. The Knight licks into your mouth, his tongue hot and forceful as it explores your mouth, you can taste the lust on his lips, and you happily welcome the sensation.

His right hand works around the way your gown has flared out in the water and eventually wraps itself around your ass, pulling you up onto his lap. You’re mostly out of the water now, just your shins being completely submerged. You’re slightly weighed down by the added weight of a wet skirt, but you sit comfortably on the guards lap, your hands coming up to wrap around his neck, kissing him from above now. The kiss is forced down, and this time you’re able to lick into his mouth, nibbling his lip and deepening the kiss further from the angle. You can’t help your hands from cupping his face now, pulling him into you.

Your noses rub into one another, and both of his arms lift you up from behind. Your back arches into him, and your breathing hitches, getting heavier and hotter. He starts to get hard, you feel it under your body, and a mixture of the kissing and the pressure beginning to press into your cunt is really starting to turn you on. You start to just softly grind against him, moaning a little bit at the feeling of his growing cock against your heat. His hands help you, making the humping motion more smooth and natural. The kissing becomes sloppy now, and the water from the wet bodice is making your nipples just that much harder.

Your hands are reaching down to slide the suspenders off his shoulders, and then you’re pulling his shirt up and unhooking the trousers. Your hand is reaching in and finding the base of his hardening, thick length. He groans at your touch, and you’re bending down to kiss his neck, sucking deep, purple hickeys into his golden skin. You’re needy, still grinding against him and trying not let the water slow you down. He’s sighing breathy moans and grunts in your ear as you start jerking him off. The water does make it hard, but there’s something about the added sensation of the flowing water that really made it unique. You swipe your thumb over the head a few times, getting drunk with the unexpected control you have. This was the first time the two of you have fooled around that you really got to have total dominance. You liked it… you really liked.

He did too.

Your clit is able to rut so slightly and deliciously into your fist and his cock, and you’re having a hard time not letting your eyes open and flutter in pleasure. The same shocks of ecstasy ran up and down your spine, and he held you closer to his body, using his strong hands to cup your ass and knead the soft skin. You’re panting, your free hand reaches down to rub your clit, both of your hands working in between your legs as you straddle the Knight. You’re going to cum already and can’t believe it’s happening so fast but choose not to hold it back. You’re moaning out loud when you cum against your fingers, graining against his lap fast and squeezing his cock a little harder.

“Fuck, did you just cum?” He asks deep in his voice, growling in your ear. You hum out in response against his neck pathetically, and all dominance you previously possessed dissolves as you keep jerking off your Knight. “Dirty girl, kiss me. Keep those pretty eyes closed.” His throat is dry, which you remember from last time that that means he’s close, too. You reach up to kiss him again, going in tongue first and breathing in his scent deeply. One of his hands reaches around to cup yours that is working his length, holding it and adding pressure and then making you go faster, you happily oblige and soon the pace is quick and he’s grunting against your lips. He cums in your hand, you feel the heat of it. He’s panting and sighing and it’s all so hot you think you could get turned on by it again.

He rests his head on your shoulder after cumming, catching his breath. You take your hand out of the water and you tangle your fingers through his hair, toying with the curls as he sighs against your wet skin. You open your eyes now, looking out at the horizon, lashes heavy with lust.

[SMUT ENDS HERE]

“Gross.” You chuckle.

“You liked it.” He hums against your collar bone. His hands are steadfast on your lower back, holding you there against his chest. He doesn’t have the cold breastplate separating the two of you, so your hearts were pressed against one another, beating in perfect synch. You could also finally feel how warm his body was, despite the wet clothes and gentle waves. In your peripheral, you can see some of the brown curls.

Your heart warms, this might be the happiest you have ever been. The two of you must have sat like that for a long time because your skin was starting to prune and your hair was slowly drying with the wind. His breathing had completely calmed, and he was so still and quiet that just for a moment you wondered if he had fallen asleep. The sun was almost down completely, only a little sliver of it peaking over the water. You watched it as it fell to its resting place in the ocean, the sky still blazing oranges and yellows but cooling with a soft, pale blue from the top down. It was so… serene, so peaceful. Nothing like the crashing waves of Corellia. This was the best part of Mandalore yet. It’s saving grace.

The crescent moon is on the horizon when he’s turning to kiss your ear one more time and asking you to close your eyes as he pulls the helmet back on.

“We should probably get back, I don’t want to be late for Vizsla and I’m afraid I’ve started to lose track of time.” He stands up and holds his hand out for you to take. You attempt to hoist yourself up out of the water, but the wet dress has added so much weight that you can’t lift your legs up. You grunt in effort, but there’s no budging. “Huh, looks like we need to take that thing off.”

“Again?” You look up at him, you knew he had a smug smirk under all that beskar. You reach behind you to undo the corset just enough for you to step out of it, water dripping from your undergarment as he yanks you up and out of the warm water. “I’m starting to think you just really like seeing me naked.” You mutter and don’t realize how close you were to him while saying that until after. You catch your tongue, holding your breath as he looks down at you.

“Yeah, something like that.” He mumbles in response and you believe you could faint and die right then and there. He doesn’t let the moment stew for nearly as long as you would have liked for it, however and he’s pulling the sopping wet dress out of the water and carrying it back on shore. He hands it to you when he gets to his armor, and you try ringing some of the liquid out from the fabric but it’s almost too heavy for you to even hold in your arms. He re-assembles his gear on top of the wet clothes and you know that can’t be comfortable. Sand clings to your bare, wet feet, and you're desperately trying to brush some of it off before slipping your shoes back on. He’s resituated too fast, he has dressing his armor down to a perfection and you’re sad to see your beach adventure come to a close so quickly.

Before you know it, he’s walking up the hill again with you by his side, making your ways to Clove who has been diligently and patiently chewing on the grass in the field this entire time.

“Ride with me.” You ask as he helps you onto the palomino. “Please.” You ask. “We’ll get to the palace faster and then maybe you can get out of those wet clothes before you have to go to the meeting.” You ask. He sighs but then nods with a shrug, hoisting himself onto the horse behind you. You were riding normally now, and situated yourself comfortably into his chest. The wet gown lay on the back of the horse and you wished you had thought about removing that before getting into the water.

As the two of you start a gentle gallop to the palace, you feel your hair get drier. At one moment he reaches his hand up to run bare fingers over your healing bicep.

“We should have kept this out of the water.” He says in your ear. You twist your head back to reply.

“It’s okay, really. It’s starting to feel a lot better.” You reassure.

“It looks better, but the salt water can only do bad things to it.” He explains. You shrug, unsure of how he expects you to respond.

The three of you arrive at the castle just as the sky begins to darken, both of you still damp from the ocean but your hearts still full and bodies still riding the orgasm high. The Knight helps you off the horse, and now that you aren’t alone, you feel very aware that you’re only in your undergarments and really anyone could see you. You pull the wet gown off the rump of Clove, which was so saturated that it made his fur wet. You hold it against your body, trying to cover yourself up as much as possible. The Knight removes the saddle of the horse, storing it away and removing the bit. He stretches the beast’s ears and then walks over to the far side of the stable to grab a carrot out of a bucket before handing it to Clove as a reward for his hard work. You watch him as he expertly takes care of the animal, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Then, with no warning, the two of you hear the shrill voice of none other than Koska Reeves.

“I shouldn’t have let you go.” She’s crossing over the dirt courtyard to the stables. Her hair has been done now, put up into the customary braids they usually are in. She was now wearing the royal blue color reserved for the Queen’s court, a golden sash sitting on her hips. She held the dress above her feet and she hustled in your direction. You felt scared, you knew Koska meant business, and was not afraid to scold. She was intimidating, to say the least. “You’re soaking wet.” She gasps when she gets to the stable fence. “Come with me, Princess. We must get you changed before anyone sees you or the Queen will have my head.” She sighs, opening the gate for you to walk through. “As for you, Vizsla’s here early.”

“What.” You heard the drop in his voice from panic. “Why?”

“No one knew, he just arrived before we could do any regular welcoming. The evaluation is starting in ten minutes, I suggest you move your ass.” She shakes her head. You were incredibly thankful you had both rode Clove now. He wouldn’t have made it back in time if you hadn’t. You did feel a twinge of guilt, however. You shouldn’t have pushed for that so much and risked him missing his mandatory meeting. But an overwhelming part of you was more than happy that you got to experience those few hours alone with him. He swears under his breath before bowing to you, shrugging apologetically and then full sprinting towards the servant quarter’s entrance. “I would take that from you,” Koska says in reference to the wet dress, “But I’m already in my ceremonial dress. I can’t get it wet. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I can manage.” You nod. The two of you begin to walk back inside, and the night time breeze runs over your wet body, making you shudder ever-so-slightly. When you get back inside, the Knight is nowhere to be seen, and there’s only a fraction of the people as there were earlier. The masks had all been moved somewhere, which let you know they finished them. A mother sat on a chair by the fireplace, nursing a small baby and three young boys who couldn’t be any older than seventeen all sat around one table playing some type of card game and eating buttered bread. They were the stable boys. The three of them stared at you when you walked in, in awe of your unparalleled beauty and the fact that you were carrying a massive, heavy, wet dress.

Koska led you down a hall adjacent to the fireplace. You could see into a few sleeping quarters. The little ones were dozing off, and in one room was a couple laughing together. The small community that existed underneath the palace was something you deeply admired. You wouldn’t have had any idea any of this was here if you hadn’t pushed for today’s events, and you truly loved it. You loved how all these people found refuge and a home here.

You wished you could, too.

Koska stops at one door, taking the wet dress out of your hands and tossing it into the room before closing the wooden door shut and progressing back down the hallway. She eventually opens up a door to a small room with a single bed and large chest.

“Is this your room?” You ask, looking around and familiarizing yourself with it. A single embroidery hoop with a half-done pattern sat on the bed, on the windowsill was a melting candle whose wax had dried in a cascading pattern on the ancient stone, and at the foot of the bed was a small table with a wash basin and hairpins.

“No, It’s my sister’s. My room is closer to the Queen’s.” She nods. You had no clue Koska had a sister. She opens up the chest and pulls out a dry under-slip and simple but pretty purple dress. It wasn’t a ballgown and had long, bell sleeves in a similar fashion to Koska’s. There was some moon and star embroidery on the bodice.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.” You said, starting to shiver a little now.

“Her name is Alva, she works in the kitchen.” She nods as she crosses over to the table, opening up a little box to pull out a horse-hair comb.

“Will she mind us using her things?”

“Well, you’re the Princess, so I hope not.” She shrugs and crosses over the room again like a madwoman, pulling a wool blanket from the chest. “Here, strip and dry off.” You look at her, confused. “Alright… I’ll turn around then.” Koska rolls her eyes and turns to face the wall. You peel off the wet slip, and use the wool material to wipe your body dry. It wasn’t nearly as soft and luxurious as the cotton robes you have five floors up, but it will do for now. You have sand everywhere, and you mean everywhere. You brush it off as best you can, hoping it doesn’t make too much of a mess for anyone to have to clean. You then pull on the dry clothes, and clear your throat when you’re done and decent.

Koska turns around and smiles. “Sit, I’ll brush your hair for you and then escort you back upstairs to see your parents.”

You had completely forgotten that they would be arriving tonight. You get a twinge of adrenaline. You’ve been so homesick, and it will be nice to see some familiar faces after such an emotional two weeks. You sit at the stool in front of the table, and Koska carefully combs out your knotted but drying hair.

“So… It looks like you two had fun.” She says. You smile and blush.

“Yes, we did.” You chuckle.

“That’s good, it’s been so long since he’s had fun. He deserves it.” She hums in response and you immediately question how they know one another so well again.

“How do you know each other?” You ask, knowing there's no harm in that.

Koska sighs, “We… used to work together in a sense. He’s a good man, an even better father.” She shrugs. So that’s four people you can think of who know about his son, You, Koska, Peli and the woman from Isla’s bar… although that situation seemed different, magical almost.

“You two never…” You trail off, not really wanting to hear the answer but not stopping yourself before you ask it anyways.

Koska laughs out loud this time, stopping the combing motion, “Oh stars, no. Never. I have someone else… and he has you.”

Your heart warms at that phrase. “Who is this ‘someone else’ you speak of?” You ask, enjoying the casual girl talk the two of you are sharing.

She hums again, “You’ve met her, she’s shorter than me and far more serious, she has a fire burning, but she’s special to me.” You can hear the smile in Koska’s tone.

You wonder who she’s talking about.

—

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[silentprincess17]

The Perils of Swimming

This fic is a collab between me and the wonderfully talented artist @neivaloz on tumblr! Check out her awesome artwork that accompanies this fic! I love how we inspired each other and I look forward to more!

Summary: Link agrees to go swimming with Zelda when she gets her body back. He does not think this through, because there is one major problem: he can't swim.

Read on AO3 here!

Now that the sea in Aboda Village was directly in front of him, with Zelda no longer a ghost and made of flesh and skin, her promise of taking him out to swim actually a reality and not a passing comment at Papuchia Village, Link was beginning to regret the rashness with which he had said yes.

He hadn’t expected her to actually take it seriously. In the throes of the whirlwind adventure, he hadn’t anticipated she would actively remember, let alone take it to heart- it was now... four months since they had reclaimed the Ocean Realm? Which means it was roughly two months since they defeated Malladus. Towards the end, time seemed to fuse together, and life boiled down to essentially overcoming whatever barrier was in their way at the time. First it was restoring the tracks, then obtaining the Compass, followed by the Bow of Light and finally entering the Dark Realm to fight Malladus with the Lokomo Sword strapped to his back. By the time they reached the Compass, Link had more or less lost all notion of time, as Zelda and he grew progressively more panicked with each setback and it became an increasingly hectic race to save her body…

Link had chosen to stick with his engineering, primarily. He still felt he was more of a rookie soldier who only knew how to perform vague attacks that just so happened to work out in his favour, and without Zelda’s help as a Phantom he most certainly would have failed from the get-go. With that in mind, he chose to continue with what he had trained for up until now: to pilot the trains with mechanical engineering as his mainstay. Still, he didn’t want to completely lose what sword skills he had developed, so he regularly stopped at Hyrule Castle to train with Captain Russel and his guards. (The latter was really just an excuse to see Zelda before. Or afterwards. Most of the time it was both.)

And yesterday, Friday night, was one of those times he had gone to training, visiting Zelda before he supposedly went home for the weekend.

What he hadn’t expected was for her to insist on coming with him back to Aboda Village. He would never refuse her anything, and he assumed she might have wanted to meet Alfonso, or Niko, or really just visit his hometown, and he had agreed, staying at the castle that night. Zelda had long since given him a room close to hers, as a “more convenient place to stay” seeing how central the castle was to the rest of Hyrule.

Taking all that together, it was a surprise when she dragged him across to the small beach, where the sun sparkled against the deep blue sea, unclasped her belt that had the small sash attached to it, and pulled her dress off.

He gaped, before hurriedly turning away, “Zel! What are you doing?!”

“Taking my dress off silly, I’ve got my swimsuit underneath! We’re going swimming! I’ve finally, finally, caught up with the paperwork that accumulated whilst we were on our journey, and I finished my lessons in advance this week, for this reason! I know it’s not Papuchia, but there’s always a next time!”

What? Swimming? NEXT TIME?!

Nope, he had to ignore that for now. There was the issue of surviving the first-time round.

Because the idiot that he was, he couldn’t swim!

He lived in what was basically a seaside town, and yet, he couldn’t even paddle in the water, let alone swim.

He would drown as soon as the water reached higher than his neck!

“Link? It’s not too late, is it? I know it’s a little bit later than what I originally intended for when asking you, but there was just so much reordering to do in the Kingdom. Plus, you remember the whole scribing thing we had to undertake; it all took up so much more time than I expected. And then the weather was just awful this past week whenever I had some free time...”

Oh yes, he remembered the scribing. That whole incident had happened a week after their return to the castle, where Link had stayed behind both to physically recover himself from exhaustion and his wounds, and simultaneously help Zelda adjust to the land of the living.

On the first day, she had walked into so many doors and walls he thought she might have concussed herself, she regularly forgot she had to eat, and she didn’t have any fear of heights, despite the fact that falling with a body had pretty serious consequences. Consequently, Link felt honour bound to try to help her to remember she was, in fact, Hylian, and as such susceptible to many perils that she seemed to have forgotten over the course of the long months she spent as a spirit. Plus, she was very cute, and he blushed every time he felt her grip his hand excitedly, or drag his arm towards a bookshelf, or give him impromptu hugs for helping her.

Niko had cornered them after a week, wondering where Link had gotten too. When he found the two of them nibbling on sweet buns from Castle Town, a book on maps wedged firmly on their thighs, Link’s arm resting on the panel just above her shoulders; Niko had pulled a right fit. He had fussed over Link before declaring he would now create a tapestry to commemorate the newest iteration of legendary events. And that had taken the better part of two weeks to complete, and was now referred to as the “scribing” by Zelda and him.

“Link! Are you going to change your clothes or not? That’s the second reason why I didn’t drag you to Papuchia, because I forgot to tell you to pack your trunks.” She paused, “You do have trunks, right?”

No, no he didn’t. He’d just sacrifice an old pair of cargo pants he had. It would be fine. Probably. He made a vague motion towards his house, before deciding to put the Hero’s cap on. It would hopefully hold some of his hair back, and it would bring him luck on this death quest he was about to embark on.

Why?

Why did he put himself through this?

He sighed. He knew the answer.

This was all because he couldn’t say no to her.

He shuffled back into his home, Niko popping up whilst he half-heartedly opened his wardrobe and shuffled around some more. Spirits. He didn’t want to go back out. He didn’t want to admit to Zelda he didn’t know how to swim. Worse still, he didn’t want her to think badly of him for living by a seaside town, and yet, never having learnt such an essential skill.

Niko hobbled across on his cane to Link, peering around the wardrobe door.

“What’s with the long face? I thought you’d be excited, bringing the Princess over. Yes boy, I know she’s here, everyone heard the two of you enter town. It’s a small place, Link.”

He fished out an old, half-faded blue pair of shorts. “Zelda wants to go swimming, Niko.”

Niko’s eyes widened, “What? But you-”

Link slammed the wardrobe door shut with perhaps more force than necessary. “I know.”

Niko hesitated, before he placed a gnarled hand on Link’s shoulder. “I have a question for you Link… Do you know of any of Princess Zelda’s weaknesses?”

Well, that one was easy. “She’s absolutely terrified of mice. She will literally jump into my arms, or onto my back, to escape them.” He chuckled, “Even as a giant Phantom, three times my height, she couldn’t come near one.” He hesitated, thinking back to their recent conversations on her balcony under the stars, “She’s also scared of not doing well... but I guess this is a fear we all have…”

“That’s your answer then, Link.”

Huh? Why would knowing what Zelda was scared of make any difference?

“I can see you are still confused. Let me make it clearer. Did you judge the Princess for having those failings? Did you at any point think less of her?”

He vehemently shook his head, before stopping midway as it finally sunk in.

Oh.

Niko simply tapped his cane against the floor twice, before ambling off. “I’ll make some fried chicken for you both. One always gets hungry after swimming in the sea.”

Link scrambled into his shorts, and then ran out, just as Zelda walked up to meet him. “You were gone for an awfully long time, Link. I don’t want to imagine how disorganised your wardrobe is-”

The words bubbled out, “Zelda I don’t know how to swim.”

“-at least you’ve got some… are those even trunks? Well-”

“Zelda.” He grabbed her hand, shaking her arm a little, “Zelda!”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to swim.”

She stared, stupefied. “Why didn’t you say? I would have brought my floats!”

It was his turn to gape. “Floats?”

She waved her hands in the air. “You know those things you use to keep you upright in the water.” A frown grew on her face, “Wait, does everyone here not know how to swim? That’s quite dangerous! We’ll have to change that.”

She shook her head, gently clasped his hand, pulling him along, “But that’s for later. I’ll teach you today, Link, if you want?”

He nodded, and she smiled.

“Let’s start off with paddling first, and then progress to basic kicks!”

Time flew by again, as he started off gently peddling his feet in the water, arms spread out wide, head just about jutting above the water line as he hovered, suspended in the sea, for the first time. Once he’d mastered just holding his weight in the water they proceeded onto kicks. That involved first thrashing his legs whilst gripping onto the ridge of land to hold himself in place. Then he advanced to doing one leg at a time like a proper swimming pattern. Zelda wrapped her arms around his middle, and he had a go at moving both arms and legs in synchrony.

He was surprised she could carry him, “Link, I do exercise you know. I’m not just a fluffy Princess. Being a Phantom was quite the experience.”

She heaved him higher, and he spluttered in the water, thrashing his arms a bit at the unexpected heave, “I liked being strong, and being able to help you. So, I’m going to do the best I can with my current body too. You never know, it might prove useful on our next adventure!”

He could only smile. He thanked the Spirits for giving him the chance to meet Zelda. For going on their convoluted journey. For having her as his best friend.

Soon enough, she gently let go of him, and moved to interlock her fingers with his hands as she guided him through the waves, his legs doing the measured, purposeful kicks they had practised.

He was so focussed, he hadn’t at all noticed Alfonso on the shore, until he called out to them, probably wondering what Link was even doing in the water. Zelda told Link to keep on kicking his legs as she slowly walked backwards, screamed back that he was okay and that he was learning to swim. Both of them cringed as they heard Alfonso guffaw loudly and watched as he shook his head, walking off towards the station.

“Well, we’re nearly there, Link!” She loosened her grip on his left hand, moving to clasp his wrist instead, “I’m barely holding onto you! You’re doing it! You’re swimming!”

And he gave her the biggest smile he could, as she slowly let go, wading backwards, and he swam by himself towards her, for the very first time.

Suddenly, the idea of doing this again was no longer so horrifying.

What was there to worry about when he had Zelda, his partner, his best friend, by his side?

[gumnut-logic]

What do you think the greatest brotrayal of all time would be?

What?

Somewhat of a challenge, not sure I pulled it off, but I hope you enjoy it anyway :D

Thanks to @janetm74 @scribbles97 @vegetacide and @tsarinatorment for various read throughs and cheerleading :D

Sorry, Scott :D

-o-o-o-

Scott glared at his brothers.

Virgil, John and Gordon stood in a line on the comms room hardwood floor all looking straight ahead as if they were in a military inspection. Which was particularly odd since only one of them had ever been in said military.

Hell, even his grandmother was ramrod straight beside them.

Scott was absolutely beside himself. Still dressed in his uniform, complete with its coating of mud, he had no doubt that his appearance was anything but reassuring to the brothers standing in front of him.

Not that he cared. This was beyond it all.

This was so ludicrous that it was hard to even suspect Gordon as the culprit.

Though he was still the most likely despite his arm being in a sling.

Scott eyed his fish brother. He had a scratch above one eyebrow that hadn’t been there when Scott left this morning.

But then a lot was different on Tracy Island since he left this morning.

The most obvious difference was the Thunderbird stuck at an angle where the pool was supposed to be.

His ‘bird was shining in the late afternoon light, her silver hull gleaming as she sat at a sixty-degree angle just beyond the balcony, her wings gouged into the concrete of the patio.

Virgil shifted where he stood on his crutches and Scott felt the briefest flash of guilt at making him stand there. His engineer brother had been grounded for the last week with a broken ankle, along with Gordon and his broken arm. Which is why Scott had been in Two today with the currently guilt free Alan.

His youngest brother stood off to one side, apparently caught between shock and relief that he wasn’t to blame.

“I’m waiting for an explanation.” For several things.

The room still reeked of burnt furnishings. Whatever had happened in the kitchen had left it black and under a haze of smoke that had infiltrated the villa.

As if to comment, John sneezed suddenly. His space brother sniffed and screwed up his face before he realised Scott was eyeing him. He, too, was standing on crutches, something he wasn’t doing this morning.

And still no-one said anything.

Not even Grandma, and honestly that was a kicker.

“Gordon-“

“What are you looking at me for?”

Scott shot him a flat stare. “History.”

“Hey, the last time I borrowed One, I brought her back in one piece.”

“Complete with Eau de Polecat!”

“That does not automatically put me at fault. Besides this was an emergency.”

Scott blinked. A little progress. “And?”

But Gordon clammed up and went back to staring at the portraits on the far side of the room, every bit the WASP Lieutenant Tracy he actually was.

Scott turned to John, his ever-faithful source of relevant information.

“J-“

“I’m sitting down.” John turned and crutched his way past Scott and into the sunken lounge without another word.

Scott stared after him.

“Honey, are you feeling okay?” His grandmother followed his space brother and began fussing over him and his leg, both completely ignoring Scott.

What the-? “How. Did. This. Happen?!” Okay, so he might be yelling just a little, but the cause was sufficient. He turned to his trusted first. His best friend. His brother. His Virgil.

Said brother was looking rather pale. “Virgil?”

Sad, dark eyes looked up at him. “I wanted to make you popcorn.”

-o-o-o-

Virgil was frustrated. Virgil was always frustrated when he was grounded and today sported no reason to change that attitude.

Worse, he had had to watch Scott take his ‘bird out to a mudslide. His big brother was not a fan of flying Two, but since Virgil had a busted ankle and Gordon an equally busted arm, that was the deal today.

To top it all off, mudslides sucked big time and Scott and Alan would likely come home exhausted, especially since two of their brothers were currently unavailable to assist.

So, to help just that little bit he had spent the last couple of hours hobbling around the kitchen slapping together something that could be considered a relaxing meal for that evening, vetoing any chance of Grandma getting into the kitchen and destroying stomach linings.

It helped that Grandma was in Wellington with Kayo.

To top it off, Virgil had put together an apple pie, Scott’s favourite. He had also made sure there was a bucket of triple chocolate ice cream in the freezer for Alan – one that he had stashed away for emergencies just like this.

The last thing on his list was to make some candy popcorn for the squirt and put some kernels aside ready for popping later so they would be nice and warm for the movie.

He was in the process of heating the oil when Gordon burst into the room as if out of nowhere.

Virgil to dropped a spoon.

Damn sandshoes were silent.

“Hubert’s dying!”

“What?” His back creaked as he picked up the piece of cutlery.

“Hubert, the albatross that collided with the window and broke his wing.”

“What albatross?” The oil began to smoke a little so he turned the heat off. His Gordon radar was at full alert – this would likely take a while.

“Yesterday? Upstairs? How did you not hear that?” A blink. “Okay, it was five am. You don’t exist before ten, I’m sorry.” The sarcasm was dripping and a little caustic. “Regardless, Hubert has gone limp and I think he’s dying, Virg. Help me please.” The accompanying clasped hands reminiscent of either prayers or vigorous begging, complete with a sling that wasn’t doing what it was supposed to, were a little over the top.

“Okay. Fine. Show me the patient.” He reached over and nudged the broken arm back into its sling while Gordon glared him.

“Hurry up.”

Virgil grabbed his crutches and followed Gordon to the stairs before darting sideways and thumbing the elevator doors open.

“Okay, fine, hop-a-long.” Gordon jumped down the last few steps and hurried into the elevator with Virgil.

He bounced on his heels the entire way to the infirmary level.

Virgil watched his agitation and realised that whatever was wrong with this bird, Gordon had invested himself in it, much like every other injured animal he had dragged home since he had learnt to walk.

Gordon ushered Virgil into the infirmary and to his horror,  he found the limp sea bird strapped secure in one of the beds. “Gordon, have you heard of hygiene?”

“It’s fine. The sheets are clean. He’s safe.”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

But Gordon’s whine drew him into examining the bird, which, considering it was avian, did not comply with the human knowledge Virgil possessed.

“I don’t really know, Gords.” Virgil stabbed at the infirmary’s computer interface, interrogating the net for baseline vitals for an albatross. Hell, he didn’t even know which species.

“It’s a Gibson’s Albatross.” Gordon was stroking the unconscious bird gently with his fingers.

This was not the first time, nor was it likely to be the last time Virgil found himself in this situation, though the species did vary. As always, his answer was. “I’m sorry, Gordon. You need a qualified vet.”

“But I set his wing. He should be getting better.” Gordon’s age regressed around animals and tended to break Virgil’s heart in the process.

“I’m sorry, Gordon.”

“For goodness sake, we’re International Rescue!” The plea in his brother’s eyes stabbed right where it hurt.

But then those eyes widened and a light bulb went off above Gordon’s head.

Or it could have been a pre-emptive precursor for the migraine Virgil suddenly knew he was going to end up with.

“No, Gordon.”

“But he’s dying!” Gordon grabbed Virgil by the arm. “It’s our job to save lives.”

“How exactly are we going to get him to the mainland? Neither of us can fly.” Virgil wasn’t going to admit it, but the bird didn’t look like it was going to last long enough for another family member to make it home. “I’m sorry, Gordon.” He was already calculating how to cheer up his little brother.

“No!”

He sighed. It wasn’t as if he wanted the bird to die. Hell, if he was hail and healthy, he would have already put it on Tracy Two and be halfway to Auckland by now. But there was no way he was risking himself or his brother in a plane with a broken limb. Maybe Kayo might get back in time?

But then the inevitable happened. He should have seen it coming.

“We can take Thunderbird One!”

Virgil blinked. “What? No!” God, no, Scott would kill him.

“This is a life, Virgil! What makes a bird’s any less important than a human’s? It’s his life, our house has endangered it, and now we aren’t doing anything to help save it? How is that fair?” Gordon’s fists were now clenched at his sides, the sling yet again ignored. Fiery carnelian glared at Virgil. “I can’t do it with my arm, but Thunderbird One doesn’t require feet to operate.” A flicker of his eyelids. “This is on you.”

Virgil stared at his little brother.

A glance at the limp bird on the bed.

Back to Gordon, ever so fiery and passionate.

Virgil reached down, unfolded Gordon’s fist and pulled the sling back into place.

Ten minutes later he found himself doing what he did every time this kind of situation happened.

Thunderbird One launched with Virgil at the helm and Gordon clutching a desperately ill albatross in the back seat.

-o-o-o-

Scott stared at his second eldest brother, the man with whom he trusted so much. Virgil had literally held Scott’s life in his hands on several occasions.

“You borrowed One to take an injured bird to the vet.”

Virgil shifted where he stood. “It was to save a life.”

Scott turned to the lounge and glared at John. “And you let him fly with a broken ankle?”

John returned the glare with equal strength. “Are you kidding me? This is Virgil we’re talking about. I thought One was safer in his hands than yours.”

“What?!”

“It’s not like he’s going to do anything stupid with your ‘bird, is he?”

There were no words, so Scott just gestured in the direction of the pool.

With both hands.

“Yeah, well, probabilities can’t predict everything.”

The flippant, non-answer went straight to Scott’s head and rattled around in there for a moment or two before he chose to file it for later or risk implosion. John was rubbing at his foot and Scott latched onto it to save his sanity. “How did you hurt yourself?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the kitchen caught fire. Kayo had already been called out again and I was worried about Grandma.”

“And?”

“I tripped.”

“Over what?”

“My own feet! It’s not every day you see Thunderbird One get stuck in the pool!” John glared at Scott. “Cahelium on concrete is very loud.”

Scott stared at him, not willing to face the image those words inflicted on him.

“Why was the kitchen on fire?”

But then something Virgil had said popped into his mind. He couldn’t help it, he rubbed his face with his hand. “Grandma, why didn’t you wait for Virgil to get home?”

“He left the popcorn on the counter, dear, I was trying to help.” Grandma wasn’t looking at him. John’s leg appeared to need a good rub right at this very moment.

John was wincing.

But with that explained, Scott had no choice but to turn back to Virgil, who was still standing clinging to his crutches.

Why hadn’t he sat down? He was ever so very sorry looking and Scott’s heart melted at the edges.

“Virgil, what happened?”

Brown eyes slowly peered up at him.

God, did he really have to deploy that little brother expression. Thunderbird One was down for the count, stuck in the damned pool and the brother responsible wasn’t even letting him stay angry. Goddamnit! How does a thirty-year-old man regress to six-year-old like that? Those eyes were the same eyes Virgil deployed that time he crashed Scott’s bicycle.

As if in answer, something whacked Scott’s thigh.

Ow! “What the hell?”

Looking down he found an extremely large seagull with a bandaged wing glaring up at him. Their eyes met and it squawked.

Very loudly.

“Hubert! What are you doing down here?” And suddenly, there was a race on around the comms room, Gordon chasing the waddling bird as it methodically thumped everyone with its wings, took out a pot plant and to Scott’s horror, one of Dad’s souvenirs. Both toppled with a crash as Gordon continued to chase Hubert around the room.

Alan joined him a moment later.

Part of Scott wanted to yell the building down, but most of him just wanted to know how the hell his ‘bird had ended up stuck halfway into her launch bay.

So, he turned back to Virgil and asked again, perhaps a little louder over the ruckus as the stupid bird scrambled over John in its eagerness to torture everyone.

He approached his brother carefully and placed a hand on each arm. “Virg, What happened?”

“It was an accident. I’m sorry, Scott.”

“That much is obvious. What malfunctioned?”

Brown eyes were suddenly not looking at him.

“Virgil?”

His brother straightened a little. “You have too many damned levers.”

“What?”

He seemed to be saying that a lot today.

“I pushed the wrong lever, okay? It’s on the left on Two and One has it on the right and I yanked on it to slow and the wings deployed. Wrong lever, sorry, okay?”

Scott stared at Virgil, his jaw slowly dropping as his hands lost their grip on his brother and just hovered mid-air beside him. “You used the wrong lever?”

“Yeah, sorry, my bad.” Virgil was looking at his feet. “Can I sit down now?”

Scott’s mouth was still open and he had to force himself to close it. “Sure.” So his voice was a little bit higher than normal…

Virgil didn’t hesitate, clutching his crutches and hurriedly tapping his way over to the lounge.

Behind Scott there was a sudden crash and the sound of breaking glass as both Alan and a bird squawked at the same time.

Scott didn’t turn to look. He just stood staring at his ‘bird, still gleaming in the late afternoon sun, still sticking out of the pool.

His jaw may have dropped just a little again.

But nothing more was said.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Blood in the water Part 2

Pairing: merman!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, kidnapping, non-consensual drug use, brief mention of breeding, minor depiction of violence.

Words: 3496.

Part 1

___________________

He started singing again, and you turned on Slipknot to the full volume, carefully slipping on your noise-canceling headphones you ordered not so long ago. They were really a blessing, but even with them and all the noise surrounding you Steve’s voice still rang inside your head. 

He had a beautiful voice, the one people would call heavenly, but his intentions were far from angelic: the first night you heard Steve singing to you, you had almost went to the beach where he was waiting his prey, charmed by his divine voice. Forgetting about the danger, you floated like a cloud to him, only half-awake and clearly unaware of your actions. The only thing that saved you that night was a sharp rock you stepped on, cutting your foot, blood coloring the cold ground as you broke free from Steve’s charms. When you ran home, covering your ears and singing loudly to yourself to silence his voice, the merman let out an unnatural, frightening growl behind your back.

Then Steve started doing it every night, serenading you by moonlight. It could be romantic if only the merman didn’t try drowning you in the sea, determined to make you “his mate”. Worse, with each passing day the mark he left on your neck was becoming more and more painful and itchy, and sometimes you were waking up with deep scratches left by your own nails. 

The villagers couldn’t do much about it, despite being deeply ashamed of their inability to tell you about the merfolk - you realized they had been under some curse as every time they tried talking to you about Steve they were simply losing their voices. Of course, it all made sense now. 

They helped you taking care of the wound, but from all the words they couldn’t say you understood you wouldn’t get rid of the mark easily. Thankfully, it stopped bleeding, but the nasty scar left by Steve’s sharp teeth had still been there. Well, you could live with it, you supposed, if only you leave this forsaken place.

When you got on the first bus, you had fainted in the middle of the trip for no damn reason. You looked so bad with you eyes rolling back into your skull, your body shaking uncontrollably, the driver decided not to risk it and returned to the town immediately, leaving you in a hospital again. Strangely, you woke up with no pain whatsoever, fresh as a daisy. It was the curse the merman gifted you - you couldn’t be too far from him now, dragged back by the mark on your neck, and your only chance to stay alive was either staying with him or taking him with you. 

Maybe you could get rid of the curse if you killed him, you weren’t sure. As far as you knew from locals, they didn’t manage to kill even one in the last several decades. You didn’t know whether you could, too. Even if you would get a chance to stab Steve, you hardly imagined murdering him. You just weren’t the type.

So, he kept singing in his attempt to draw you to the beach again, and you kept hiding in that little cottage you rented. Oh yes, you were also worried about the rent since the month you paid for was coming to an end, but locals just smiled at you sadly, shaking their heads. This was how merfolk was attracting new people to the town.

“But my friends and family will be searching for me.” You mumbled, covering your face with your hands. “I have a job, a life out there.”

“I’m sorry, sunny, but no one will be searching for you,” the doctor said, giving you a salve for your mark - it was easing the itchiness. “You don’t know the merfolk. They'd stop at nothing to keep their mates close.”

“But why, for God’s sake?” You growled helplessly, unable to face the man and staring at your shoes instead.

“Reproduction, sunny. Mermaids aren’t as fertile anymore, and they are facing extinction.” He shrugged.

“And how is it supposed to work? Human with a merman?”

The doctor patted your shoulder apologetically, shaking his head. ‘I can’t tell you, dear. I... I physically can’t.”

You knew what he was talking about and couldn’t be angry at him. These people couldn’t do much, forced to protect their loved ones and living in constant fear of being abducted by the vile creatures living deep in the sea. Most of the time merfolk didn’t come to the town openly, and that’s why those women were so upset you lived far away, completely defenseless. But they couldn’t open up to you, revealing merfolk’s secret, and now Steve kept you on the hook.

Groaning when the sunlight crept in through the curtains, you rubbed your eyes and slowly got up, taking the headphones away and touching your ears. God, it hurt so much, but it was the only way for you to sleep at least for a few hours while Steve kept singing outside.

Oddly, you couldn’t hear the sound of the music as if someone turned it off, and you immediately went to your laptop to check. Shit, you forgot to plug it in. Thank goodness Steve stopped singing before your laptop turned off.

Sighing, you went to the bathroom, opening the tap and splashing some water into your face to wake up. It was barely six, but the sun was shining brightly, giving you no chance to go to sleep - you had always been up with the sun regardless of your circumstances. Now it was one more of your curses, considering you barely slept. 

Watching your reflection in the mirror, you chuckled sarcastically, touching your bottom eyelid - you looked like you just came back from the dead. Would Steve be willing to let you go once he realized you’re no more the sweet beautiful lady he met? What a fucking bastard.

Feeling nauseated, you rubbed your face and went to the kitchen, reheating yesterday’s coffee. You had no strength to make yourself breakfast, even the simplest one. 

Next minute you were wrapping the blanket around yourself and heading out of the house with a mug in your hand, eager to watch the sunrise. You weren’t afraid of Steve since you had never even once spotted him on the beach in the daylight. Besides, you kept a little knife in a pocket of your pants in case you needed to cut yourself and become free from his charms.

You still questioned yourself what were going to do next. Even if your parents and friends would forget you because of the curse affecting them somehow, you still remembered them. You wanted your life back. You wanted to sleep at night, unafraid of being snatched away by someone hiding in the dark. You wanted to wake up, knowing you are safe, and go to work, have one more simple day, then returning back home. You didn’t ask for much.

Well, you would have to figure out how to live in this small town all by yourself, find a new source of income and pretend like no scary mythical creature lingered behind your back. Maybe you would have to ask doctor to make you deaf. It should help with the singing.

Suddenly, you saw a huge figure rising from behind a rock not very far from you. You froze on the spot, looking at Steve walking carefully on the beach. Despite wearing something reminding you of a torn human sweater, he was naked below the waistline, and you blinked, looking at his soft cock dangling in between his legs.

Legs. Steve had a pair of strong, muscled human legs. 

For a second you forgot how to breathe, watching him coming closer to you, his movements a bit unsteady and slow. You became rooted to the ground where you stood, unable to turn away and run from the monster too human to your liking. Was it his magic again? Was it you who couldn’t keep running anymore?

Biting your lips painfully, you felt tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Steve was wearing your sweater, albeit badly stretched out and torn in a few places - he was so much bigger than you it was a miracle he had somehow managed to put it on. You suddenly remembered how you were searching for this sweater a week or two ago, thinking you had forgot it somewhere in the cottage. How and where did Steve find it? Was he always able to walk? If so, why didn’t he take you away?

Well, maybe that’s what he was going to do now.

Finally finding some strength, you turned back to your cottage, eager to get away as far as possible from him, but then heard Steve’s angry, raspy voice, “Stay where you are!”

And you stood, moving back to face him and unable to do anything at all but watch. 

Steve looked as tired as you are: you saw the bags under his eyes, his full lips cracked, his expression exhausted as if your resistance was straining him. Wasn’t he supposed to be an invincible immortal being wandering the sea? He looked so much more human now you weren’t even sure anymore.

“You want my throat to bleed, don’t you?” He grunted in a hoarse voice, wincing when he spoke, and you realized he lost his voice after signing night after night to you. “I am doing my best for you, and you just turn on that horrible, distasteful music every night!”

You smirked - how dare was he to call Slipknot’s best songs “distasteful music”?

“This shouldn’t happen this way. You’re ruining it.” Steve continued to grumble as he kept coming closer and closer, and, oddly, you found out you weren’t as scared of him anymore as you were in that faithful night. 

“Ruining what?” You asked, sipping your still warm coffee when he approached you, wet and angry.

“The courtship!” The man exclaimed, breathing heavily - it seemed walking on his human legs was talking a toll on him. “You had to come to me, you stubborn woman! And what are you making me do? Come to you instead?”

He coughed, squeezing his eyes shut and touching his neck. It had to be really painful for him to talk.

Despite how wicked he was and how badly you wanted him to have a taste of his own medicine, you almost felt pity for your merman, handing him your mug when he stopped close to you.

“What is this? Coffee?”

“With milk. Good for your throat.” You replied, acknowledging he knew of human drinks.

Gazing at you skeptically, Steve sniffed your mug and then took it in his arms, glancing at the liquid inside. “It’s hot.”

“It’s warm. You won’t burn your tongue.” You said, taking the blanket off your shoulder and wrapping it around his hips - seriously, you felt too awkward to stand near a man dressed in just a little stretched-out sweater.

“You and you fear of nudity, humans.” Steve grunted, but sipped the coffee, nonetheless, quickly getting used to it and finishing your mug. “Oh, this one isn’t bad. I tried espresso, but it was so bitter I couldn’t have the whole cup.”

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around your own body and looking at the merman. What was he going to do now? He didn’t look vile, probably not as angry and upset as before, but who knew what he had in mind.

“So what? Are we going to stay here in the cold or you will bring me to your house?” Steve asked snappish while you snorted at him. 

“Really? I thought your plan was to drown me in the sea, not bask in the warmth of my bed.”

He grinned, pressing your mug to his impressive chest.

“Why would I drown you, silly woman? Come on, it’s cold out here in the morning. I want to stay at your place.”

He took your hand in his, and you finally moved from your spot as if Steve allowed you. Making sure the blanket was wrapped tightly around him, you went to your house, thinking of the knife in a pocket of your pants. If he was planning to attack you, you could definitely stab him through your thin sweater or cut his throat. It would require some skill, though.

Entering the little hallway, Steve looked at the ceiling and winced from the mirror hanging on the wall, looking at his reflection. Shaking his head disapprovingly, he reached out to touch his swollen bottom eyelid. 

“I thought merfolk aren’t afraid of cold.” You said, entering the kitchen and emptying the coffee pot.

“Not in this pathetic human body.” Steve entered after you, rubbing his arm in your completely wet sweater.

“Then you have to take this off and-”

“What? NO!”

He jumped away from you and stayed in the corner like a kid hiding something from his mother. You rolled your eyes.

“Although this is MY sweater, I’m not going to take it from you. I just want to dry it, alright?” You ensured, coming closer. “You’re not going to get warm if you keep it on.”

“This is my sweater.” Steve grumbled, but took it off, regardless, and handed a miserable, partly discolored piece of fabric to you to let you hang it close to the heater, watching you intently - did he really think you’d ran away with your sweater?

When you turned to face him, your blanket wasn’t secured on his hips anymore, and you stared at his naked member again, your face growing terribly hot from the sight. What was that merman thinking? Was he flaunting his.. physique in front of you? You knew of some animals doing that to attract their mates.

“For goodness sake, cover yourself.” You huffed, taking a pack of milk from the fridge. “You don’t want this thing to freeze in the open, do you?”

“Wait, it can freeze if I don’t cover it?” His eyes shot open. “You mean I won’t be able to have children anymore?”

“Yes, this is exactly what I mean.” Oh damn, it was terribly hard not to laugh as you watched Steve looking at you in horror and hurriedly wrapping the blanket around himself as much as he could. It was hilarious. 

Putting two cups of milk into the microwave, you hit the button and pulled out some butter from the fridge to put into the cup once milk would be ready. You certainly didn’t need this hissing little mermaid who lost his voice because he sang too many serenades to you.

“So, what about the courtship?” You asked, stirring melted butter in Steve’s cup as he waited for you, sitting on a chair near the table. “How do you even imagine making babies with me?”

“You don’t know?” He looked at you innocently. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m a pro at that. I’m sure you will enjoy the process.”

“For God’s sake, Steve.” You groaned, placing a cup in front of him and taking yours. “Don’t play stupid here. I can’t live underwater. I can’t even fucking swim!”

“I’m not asking you to.” He shrugged and took his milk, ensuring it wasn’t burning hot before making a sip. “Though you won’t die underwater now. Believe it or not, you can actually breathe there because of my mark.”

You touched the scar, rubbing it with your fingers furiously and narrowing your eyes at the merman who, apparently, seemed very happy to see his mark on your skin. Once he reminded you of this thing, you were ready to snap at him.

“Do you even know how much this thing hurt?” You asked, furrowing your brows.

“This is because you refused to come to me,” he cocked his head to the side, watching you growing angry. “I only need to kiss it to make you feel better. Don’t look at me like that! It’s true, let me show you.”

You stepped backwards immediately as he advanced upon you, caging you with his large body, pressing you to the kitchen counter, his skin cold. Pushing your hands against Steve, you tried to keep him away, but he was so much stronger than you that you almost ended up with your face buried in his chest.

“What the-”

He quickly lowered his head down and sniffed you, bringing his face to your neck. The next moment Steve was touching your scar with his lips, and you whimpered involuntarily, expecting it to hurt like hell. But it didn’t. He simply brushed his dry, chapped lips against your mark, and you felt nothing especially painful. 

You were growing tired of all this magical things you didn’t understand.

“See? There’s nothing scary.” He smiled brightly, and you saw he had human teeth now, too. 

“Yeah, yeah, now please go sit over there,” you grunted, but he didn’t move, laughing at you and ruffling your hair with his large hand. “What are you doing? Go away!”

“Don’t be so cold. You are going to share your life with me, silly woman, so don’t fuss over such little thing.”

You decided it was time for more effective measures and reached out to your pocket to grab the knife, but Steve grabbed your arm before you could do it, sending you a serious look.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise.”

“Really? I have some doubts.” You slapped his hand away, but didn’t try to take the knife again. “Because you have just ruined my life with that bite. How the hell this is going to work, anyway? How do you expect me to live with you? You’re a damn mermaid!”

“I’m a merman,” he said, looking resentful, and returned to his seat, sipping his hot milk with butter - apparently, it was working, and his voice sounded less raspy now. 

You exhaled loudly, enjoying the distance and rubbing your mark that wasn’t as itchy as before, but you scratched it, anyway.

“Listen, I’m not saying I’m totally harmless, but I’m not dangerous for you.” He said as he finished his cup. “You can remain living here, on the ground, I won’t pull you into the water... often.”

“Do you understand I can’t just go and be intimate with you, someone I see for the second time in my life?”

“I’d be surprised if you did. Look, I’m not asking for it either. The courtship doesn’t last for a month. You’ll get used to me, I know.”

His dazzling smile was making you feel nauseated, and you grabbed you cup, having a bit of warm milk, too. Steve was being impossible, but you were thankful he wasn’t forcing himself on you now. Maybe there was a chance to trick him into removing this hex, and you would have to figure it out.

“If you want to know whether we can have children together, I can tell you we definitely can. It doesn’t really matter whether I take my true or human form while making love to you, so it’s up to you how you wanna do it.” Steve grinned, and you clenched your teeth, unable to believe he was talking about it so openly, caring little for your consent. There was something barbaric in this charmingly handsome half-naked man sitting in your kitchen.

Suddenly, you felt like the nausea got much stronger, and merman’s smile wasn’t at fault. What was happening? The world was spinning, and you let go of your almost emptied cup, slipping to the floor. Shit, shit, shit. It wasn’t good.

Oh God. It was him, wasn't it? He had done something to you. He smiled and talked and laughed to make you relax, think of your situation like a simple comedy when, in fact, you were still in grave danger. Were you so stupid to believe him or was it his charms again? You hoped for the latter, curshing yourself for being too carefree and letting him into your house.

“Sorry, sweetheart, it seems I put too much medicine in your milk.” He clicked his tongue as you looked at him in horror, barely able to move now. “I thought we had more time to talk. But, well, we can always do it later.”

Steve was near you the next second, carefully lifting you up in the air in his hands, watching you with a bit of concern on his face.

He proceeded to walk in the direction of the door, but before he snatched your torn sweater and put it on his shoulder, carrying you outside of the cottage that had become your little fortress over these few weeks. However, it could keep the monster off your back, and now all you could do was watching the green door becoming further and further from you with each Steve’s step to the shore.

Your body was completely frozen when his feet reached the water, and the merman left a kiss on your cheek, stroking it tenderly despite that wicked smile on his face.

“I told you, you can’t break the tradition. It is time for you to come to me now."

THE END

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Tags: @finleyjayne​ @alexakeyloveloki​   @helenaeisenhower​ @villanellevi​ @hurricanerin​ @void-hoechlin​ @abyssaint​ @heeeyitskay​ @chris-evans-indian-fanfic​ @navegandoaciegas​ @rosalynshields​ @brattycherubwrites​ @sllooney​ @angrythingstarlight​ @lovelydarkdaydream​ @soleil-dor​ @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @sourpatchspinster​

[hello-everyfandom]

“You’ll get frown lines if you continue that,”

Warnings: Light making out/Light smut (very very very light)

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!Reader

Words: 2.5k

Summary: Draco’s Hufflepuff girlfriend is nothing but a delight and the exact opposite of him.

(I really really tried. I hope Draco’s character isn’t too ooc, but I thought it’d be so sweet to see cold stone Draco with a soft, cute girlfriend)

One of the things Draco loved most about you was your extreme compassion and empathy. You were, undoubtedly, one of the sweetest people at Hogwarts. Not just to your own house, but all, even Slytherins. Perhaps that is what drew him to you, your innate ability to look past house stereotypes and befriend even the snarkiest of Slytherins. If you were to see Draco and his lovely girlfriend walking the corridors, hand in hand, you’d assume they were holding hands accidentally. Your face always had a beaming, positive smile placed on it. You waved and greeted your friends kindly and exuded an aura of friendliness. Draco, however, was the exact opposite. He scowled, maybe not on purpose, but sneered at the poor souls who happen to look at him. You were light, he was dark. Not that you minded. Whenever you caught him in a glare, you’d squeeze his hand and softly tug.

“You’ll get frown lines if you continue that,” 

Draco looked down at your smiling face and couldn’t help but send a small smile back, “And what is ‘that?’” he asked.

“This,” you pointed to your face and pulled an exaggerated scowl, pushing your eyebrows together and pointed the corner of your lips down, “See? Unattractive,”

Draco chuckled softly under his breath and tugged his bag closer on his shoulder, “So now you think I’m unattractive?” 

“No no, darling, not at all. I’m calling your face unattractive,” you leaned closer to him, inhaling his sweet cologne before waving at another friend in the corridor.

“My face is unattractive?” Draco said, feigning hurt.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” you laughed and slapped his arm gently. “But, would it kill you to smile a little?” You reached you and tried to drag his cheek up with your finger to form a smile.

“I smile when I’m with you, that’s enough smiling for my life.”

“Draco, while that is quite adorable and does, in fact, flutter my heart, I mean smiling and saying hello to people, maybe greeting your friends in a nicer way?”

Draco stopped walking and pulled you into a more secluded part of the corridors where you were visible but not quite as seen. His eyes were playful and a smirk printed itself on his lips. Draco’s eyes were mesmerizing, you nearly forgot what you were talking about before raising your eyebrows,

“I don’t have to speak sweetly to anyone but you,” Draco bent his head and placed a peck on your lips. You rolled your eyes with a grin on your face, giving him another small kiss and spun sharply on your heel. “Where are you going?” he called, holding the strap of his bag.

“I’m going to Herbology. See you later, handsome!” 

Draco’s cheeks flushed a light pink as he watched you skip down the hall, giving nods and small ‘hellos’ to the people around you who were making their way to class. Draco shook his head to rid himself of the embarrassing colour that fully displayed his love for you and paced to his next class. 

By the time supper had come around, Draco searched the Great Hall for you. Usually, you were perched on the Hufflepuff bench, chatting happily away with your friends and even turning to talk to some of the Gryffindor’s behind you. However, you were nowhere to be seen. Dinner had started and Draco tapped his foot anxiously. It was only until you had run into the Great Hall, screeching to a stop and searched wildly until you found Draco’s blonde hair amidst the sea of students. You sighed in relief and started towards his table. Draco’s eyes widened as you reached him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and sitting next to him, and across from Pansy.

“Pardon me, I don’t believe you are a Slytherin, are you?” he jokingly whispered in your ear as you started to scoop helpings of food onto your plate.

“Slytherin Blitherin,” you waved your hand, “ ‘s it so wrong to want to sit with my boyfriend?” Your boyfriend shrugged and handed you a roll of bread before asking,

“Where were you anyway? Fighting demons? No, too mean. Were you making daisy chains with the house elves?” His elbow prodded you softly.

“What? No, but actually, thank you for reminding me. I need to have a little visit to the house-elves soon, they really are quite sweet. You really should come with me Draco, they really enjoy stories and absolutely are thrilled if you sit with them for a bit. But, I just woke up too late from a nap, thas’ all.” You smiled and sipped from the goblet in front of you.

“Of course you did,” Draco rolled his eyes and settled into his dinner bench, feeling happy you were beside him.

“Pansy, by the way,” Pansy’s back straightened, she didn’t hate you but she didn’t particularly like you either, nevertheless you continued, “My mother sent me a bottle of that muggle nail polish I told you about. It’s quite cute, I could do your nails later if you’d like,” You offered kindly. Pansy’s eyes widened as she glanced from you to Draco, he shrugged.

“It’s a muggle thing?” Pansy asked curiously,

“Oh yes, but it’s so much easier than doing it with spells, surprisingly. I think it’s quite genius actually, I did mine yesterday night.” you flashed Pansy your fingernails that were delicately painted a light shade of blue. Draco studied you as you began to converse energetically with Pansy, your yellow tie laid nicely on your chest whilst your hair was messily pulled back. He couldn’t help but fall further in love with you as you laughed and even spoke to Blaise a bit about the quidditch teams you were interested in. You were just so simply kind and generous that he even felt a bit guilty. He was worried he would scare you off or even worse, transform your kindness and friendliness to something cold and more like him. However, you seemed to be unchanged and remained the same front the first day he met you. 

“Draco?” His focus was blinked out of his eyes as you peered at you,

“Yes?”

“Is there something on my face?” You ask, wiping your lips insecurely.

“Only beauty,” Draco said. The moment he uttered those words, he regretted it immediately. Blaise howled with laughter whilst Pansy began to tease him. He scowled at them and sent his friends dirty daggers. You beamed at him with a delighted gleam in your eye, 

“Aw, Draco. You’re so sweet, isn’t he sweet?” you turned to Blaise after pressing a quick kiss on Draco’s cheek.

“Oh, the sweetest.” Blaise cooed sarcastically whilst catching his breath. Underneath the table, you squeeze Draco’s hand reassuringly and leaning your head on his shoulder. Draco would never admit this to anyone, except maybe you, but he was changing. He didn’t push first years, nor spend his free periods mocking the stutters and stance of the third years. In fact, he can’t even pin the last snarky comment he made towards Potter.

“Malfoy, maybe you should rethink having a blood traitor sit at our table. It’s quite despicable if you ask me, disgusting even,” A hateful voice sounded from behind you. A few Slytherin boys who you had sadly not friended yet sneered at you. Before Draco could respond angrily and tell him to piss right the fuck off, you chimed up.

“You’re Earl Elmer, right?” You turned and rummaged through your school bag frantically before removing a crumbled piece of parchment and smoothing it down on the table. “‘m sorry if it’s a little torn, I overheard you in Charms the other day. You said you were having trouble, so I took some extra notes for you. I hope they help.” The boy looked nervously at his friends and glared at the parchment before scoffing leaving the Great Hall. You frowned, “I know it’s a little crumpled, but I didn’t think it was that bad,”

Your boyfriend rolled his eyes and rubbed your shoulders comfortingly, “He’s a bloody twat, don’t bother with Elmer.” 

“I don’t want him to be upset. If I made him angry or something of the sort I’d be gutted.”

“You’re too kind sometimes,” Draco mumbled over the chatter of the Great Hall, “you barely notice when someone’s being a right arse to you.”

“I think he has the potential to be actually quite kind,”

“Don’t count on it. Now, eat your dessert or you’ll be cranky later.” You sniffed before nodding and reaching for a cup of pudding. Draco’s heart thumped, even after being treated awfully, you still went out of your way to be kindhearted to someone. You were too good for him, and he knew it.

“If you want me to, I’ll hex him,” Pansy offered, biting into her cupcake. 

“That’s nice, Pansy, but I think I’ll pass.” You said, leaning on Draco’s shoulder again, humming contently.

In your room, you laid on your stomach with your textbook. You groaned loudly making Draco look up from his spot on your bed. 

“What’s the matter?” He asked, pulling you lay back so your back was on his chest.

“I hate Transfiguration,” you grumbled, “I can barely make out the words anymore.”

“Oh? Hate? I wasn’t sure that word was in your dictionary,” Draco teased, combing his fingers through your hair.

“It’s not, maybe I’ve been spending too much time with you,” you teased back.

“Maybe,” he bent his neck to kiss your cheek, “Transfiguration can’t be that hard.” 

“It is, you don’t even understand, my brain is exhausted, it’s simply too hard,” you said dramatically,

“I’m in your class, Love.”

“But still! You’re a smarty smarty pants. And I’m just a dumb dumb.”

“You’re a Prefect,” He pointed out. “And, not to mention, one of the smartest witches in our year.”

“You know what, you are the loveliest boyfriend ever,” you switched positions so you were in his lap and cradled his face. You pecked kisses on his face affectionately, his hands sliding on your hips and down your thighs. 

“What’s with all the kisses?” Draco wasn’t complaining, but he didn’t want to turn your head from studying either. 

“You just look so cute sitting there, I couldn’t help it. Thought you deserved some kisses!” you smiled and kissed his neck lightly and then locking your lips with his. Everything about your kisses made his head swoon, he forgot about the war, the darkness his family that engulfed his family and even his own battles with anxiety and sadness. He melted instantly into your touch, moving his hands tentatively to hug your waist. You tasted of berries and the muggle chapstick you insisted on wearing in the winters to prevent chapped lips. You felt his hands wander softly, almost scared as you nipped at his bottom lip leaving him breathless. For someone so sweet, you kissed like a woman on a mission. Your hips slowly grinding into his and the top buttons of his shirt coming undone. His lips trailed down your neck and above your collar bone, focusing on the soft skin that begged him to bite. Draco felt as though his heart would plummet into the ground as you pulled your shirt off. 

“I-” he stuttered,

“Yes?” You asked innocently,

Draco raised so he was leaning on his elbows whilst you straddled him. Your fingers quicker to unbutton his shirt, as he ran his fingers through your hair, gripping it softly. You moaned as he slipped his tongue in your mouth. A sudden knock at the door made you bolt upright. Your hair a mess from Draco’s pulling and your lips swollen from Draco’s kisses. You gasped, realizing your shirt had been thrown across the room and Draco’s was mostly unbuttoned. Draco whined at the lack of contact but you shot him a warning look before shoving a sweater over your head. You swung open the door looking for who had knocked only to lower your eyes and see a young Hufflepuff from first year.

“I’m sorry to interrupt!” She squeaked, “I just had a, uh, a question on my Transfiguration homework but I can go,” as she turned you caught her shoulder and sent her a soft look,

“No worries! Transfiguration can be tricky, can’t it?” You looked over your shoulder at Draco who looked up at the ceiling with annoyance, tapped his wrist to signal to hurry up. Obviously, he wanted to get back to kissing his gentle girlfriend. You shooshed him and twirled to speak to the Hufflepuff, “Maisie, right?” She nodded, “Will you just hold on one second, then my brain and my skills are all yours.”

You closed the door and rushed around your dorm, throwing clothes into your chest and frantically tidying up. Draco watched amused, legs stretched out on the bed with his arms under his head and his back against the headboard.

“Can’t you just tell her to bugger off?” he asked, motioning for you to come closer,

“Absolutely not. One, that’s rude. And two, it may seem foreign to you, but I do actually want to help her.”

“But we were... doing stuff,” Draco whined, it was unlike his character to beg but he had just gotten a taste of you and was starving for more.

“Were we?” You joked and pointed at his shirt, “You better button-up, buttercup!” Draco grumbled and complied as you threw the door open. 

“Come in, come in!” You motioned her forwards, she stepped cautiously into your dorm, observing the nice moss plants you had hanging as well as the cozy rug you had placed on the floor. Her eyes wandered to Draco’s figure and instantly froze in fear,

“If-if you have guests, Y/N, I can always come later,” She stuttered, fiddling with her textbook.

“What him? Don’t worry, he’s nothing but a big ole bloke who just so happens to be dating me. Plus, what are Prefects for? Now, take a seat, you can sit on the bed or on the desk,”

Draco sent her a glare making her respond quickly, “I’ll sit at the desk.” You mentally scolded Draco before helping your first-year friend with her homework.

As you bid her goodbye after helping her with her homework and sending her off with a lolly, you shut the door and sighed with happiness. Draco’s arms opened, motioning for you to fall into them and lay comfortably on his chest.

“I’m so happy,” you mumbled into his shirt,

“Is that so?”

“I love helping people,”

“I noticed.” Draco rubbed soothing circles on your back,

“‘m tired,” you yawned.

“How is it that you have so much energy to help people and care for them when you’re just a small little thing?” Draco’s voice was low, nearly lulling you to sleep. He truly was amazed at your capabilities to be so good-hearted and pure.

“I love helping people,” your eyes drooped, “just as much as I love you,”

“I love you as well,” Draco soothingly petted your hair and placed a kiss on your forehead, allowing you to drift into a lovely and blissful sleep.

[amyscascadingtabs]

your light, it follows me in darkness

Jake thinks that if he had only been the type of person to worry a bit more beforehand, perhaps the subsequent fall wouldn't have felt quite as steep. If he had only remembered to think about all the things that could still go wrong, maybe he wouldn't be feeling like the ground is giving out beneath him and everything is turning hazy when the doctor speaks to them.

Low hCG levels. No heartbeat. Unfortunately, nothing we can do to stop it. Sometimes it just happens like this.

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sneak peek below because tumblr sucks and it’s 7k, go to ao3 for the full chapter! 💞 

Jake can’t shake the feeling of guilt when the doctor confirms it.

There's nothing they could have done, she repeats in a calm and composed voice that Jake assumes is supposed to be soothing. It's not anyone's fault. Sometimes it happens like this.

 Jake understands that, logically. Still, when he thinks back to this morning, he hates himself.

~

At first, he figures Amy’s exaggerating.

Exaggerating could be the wrong word – it's not one he’d ever dream of uttering to his pregnant wife’s face – but he figures she’s just being overly worried. It was like this for the first weeks when she was pregnant with Mac, too, and everything had always been fine. Jake doesn’t think much about it when Amy pads out from the bathroom with a distracted look, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

 “I just don’t feel great today,” she sighs when he raises his brows, wordlessly asking how she’s doing.

“Want me to make you some more of that tea?” He offers, already pulling out the box from the cupboard. “I got loads at the store yesterday. Gots to stuck up for the baby, right?”

“I’m not feeling sick.” Amy grimaces. “But I have some weird cramping. Light, but… weird.”

“Oh.” Jake frowns. “Is that bad?”

“I don't know. It could be implantation, or muscles stretching, or pretty much anything. Then I thought I saw some blood, but there could be a million reasons for that this early, too, so I’m not sure what to think.” She shakes her head, looking fondly at Mac in his high chair when he lets out a happy squeal at some character on the iPad in front of him (anything to get your child to eat breakfast under time pressure). “I hate the first trimester. Everything’s scary.”

“Call the doctor if you're worried,” he suggests, hugging her quickly. “I’m sure everything’s fine, babe.”

Amy opens her mouth as if to say something, but in that same moment, Mac manages to outsmart the suction on his baby plate and spill soggy cornflakes-goo all over his high chair, the iPad, and himself, and the conversation comes to an abrupt end.

Jake stops by Amy’s desk a few times during the day, just to be sure, and each time she tells him she's fine. He never really worried from the start, but when he comes home that evening to find her laughing in the middle of a tickling-fight with Mac in an attempt to try and get him to put on pajamas, all worries are well and truly gone from his mind.

Once they've put their son to bed for the night, Amy disappears to the bathroom, returning holding two pregnancy tests.

“You're going to think I’m ridiculous now,” she says, placing them in front of him and lining up the two test windows. “Honestly, I hope I am. But this is a few days ago.” She points to the top set of pink lines with her shaking hand. “And the other one is today. The second line’s fainter. It's supposed to grow stronger.”

Jake squints. It's hard to see much of a difference to him, and he points this out to her.

“There can be other reasons,” Amy says slowly. “It could be that I’ve had more water. It could be a bad test. I’m just scared it's… what I’m scared it could be. The hormone levels going down,” she adds, seeing the confusion on Jake’s face. “The baby… you know.”

 It’s not the first time Jake's heard her worry about miscarriages. For the first two months of her pregnancy with Mac, he must have coaxed her down from panic attacks about them at least once per week, listening to her whisper the statistics that he couldn't imagine it helped to know. One in four. One in five known pregnancies. But they’d made it then, with the most perfect of results, and he doesn't have the slightest of doubts that they will again. He only wishes Amy could be sure of the same thing, so that she’d stop torturing herself with these endless what-ifs.

“What did the doctor say?” He asks, trying first to see if he can defeat the worries with logic.

“Just to call if it got worse. She didn't sound too worried, but…” Amy shakes her head, pulling at the sleeves of her knitted black sweater and picking absentmindedly at a loose thread. “I’m just scared.”

She doesn't have to tell him the last part. He can practically sense her anxiety, like a grey, vibrating force field, visible in her wide eyes and her lips, pressed tightly together. Slowly, so that she has time to stop him if she doesn't want to be touched, Jake puts his arms around her.

 It seems to be the right action this time. She rests her head against his chest, her shaky breaths warm against his neck, and he strokes her back until they're even again.

“You need to stop worrying so much,” he tells her. “Everything’s fine, Ames. You're only making it worse for yourself.”

She sniffles and looks up at him. “How do you know it is?”

 Because it's us. Because nothing bad can happen to us anymore. It's you and me, Ames.

 “I just do,” he says, confidently. “Baby’s perfect. Trust me.”

Amy nods, holding her hand low on her stomach. Yesterday she’d been moaning about how the hint of a little bump already at eight weeks was ridiculous, but now she's looking at it like she's scared it might disappear.

“That nine-week ultrasound couldn't come soon enough,” she mumbles.

“Five more days.”

“I know.”

“I can't believe Mac’s going to be a big brother”, Jake says, hoping to get her on other, more positive thoughts.

“That is crazy. He's going to love it, though.”

“He is.” He gives the baby monitor a longing look, staring at the image of Mac asleep on his tummy with his face turned toward the camera and his arms and legs sprawled like a sea star. “He’s going to be the best.”

“Yeah. You want to watch something before we go to bed? I promise I won't fall asleep.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep, Santiago.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, but there’s a small smile on her lips, and Jake considers his self-imposed mission of distracting Amy from her anxiety successful for the night.

 To no surprise of his own, Jake is correct. Five minutes into the episode of Mad Men they’re watching, Amy has started yawning. After ten minutes, she rests her head in his lap, letting him play with her hair, and after fifteen minutes, she’s snoring slightly with her mouth open. It’s been the same thing every night since she got pregnant again, no matter how adamant she is that she’ll manage to stay awake. He doesn’t have the heart to tease her about it; balancing life as a Sergeant with parenting an energetic toddler is demanding at the best of times, and he knows the famous first-trimester exhaustion is wearing at her. Jake is glad she gets to rest.

 He wakes her up once the episode is over. She’s a little dazed, blushing when she realizes she’s slept her way through it, but looking relieved when he suggests they go to bed early. They crawl into bed instead, checking on Mac one last time before they do. Jake heats up the hot water bottle for Amy when she complains about weird back pains, and then they go to sleep.

 There's no hesitance when he crawls down closer to her, hugging her until he's sure her breathing is calm and he can let himself fall asleep, too. Everything's okay. He's sure of it.

 A few hours later, Jake changes his mind about whether Amy’s just being overly worried.

[dontknownameauthor]

The right moment

Summary: Desmond has been getting these visions about Charlie dying and has been trying to prevent them from happening in real life. Y/N feels like Charlie should know the truth, since he is getting more and more confused everyday.

Warnings: Mentions of drowning

Word count: 908

It's been 68 days on this damned island with no chance of rescue in sight. Even though the majority of our people are starting to accept their faith and are getting used to the living conditions on this island, I still can't seem to tackle this dreadful feeling of homesickness. I can understand why a lot of the people here would rather not return to their past lives; almost all of them used to have it way worse than they have it now. But the problem is that I didn't.

I was at the highlight of my life; I just moved into my new home in Los Angeles and I got to spend a few weeks with my family in Australia. This all changed when I got on flight 815 from Sydney back to my new home in LA. Now we're stuck here, in the middle of nowhere.

The only good thing that has crossed my path on this island since I ended up here is Desmond Hume. At first when we met him in the hatch, I didn't think much of him. I didn't really get the chance to get to know him, because he ran off trying to flee from pushing that button. Ironically, he returned to the island on accident while sailing. Now, Desmond has been here for quite a while and we both started to take a liking to eachother, which ended up in us getting in a relationship. He's the only thing that keeps me going right now.

For some strange reason though, Desmond told me he has been having these strange visions of situations that haven't happened yet. They're mostly about Charlie dying. Desmond had tried to save Charlie's life one time and luckily he succeeded. He hasn't told anyone about these visions except me. I had told him to try and think about what could have possibly caused them, so he's been digging into his memories for the entire day now.

At the moment, I'm strolling along the beach, getting my daily dose of alone time. Being around so many different people who barely get along with eachother can be terribly exhausting. That is why the sea is my go to place to instantly calm down and get back to my senses.

I close my eyes and focus on the sound of the waves and the wind. For the first time in what feels like ages, I almost forget about the huge mess we're in right now.

"How did you know she was drowning?"

"Im tellin' ya brother, I saw her body floating in the water!"

"You're lyin', we would have seen her too! I'm not going to ask you again Desmond!"

Instantly recognizing the two male voices, I sprint my way over to the loud yelling noises.

"Charlie, there's no need to get so worked up. You should be glad I–"

"Hey, hey, hey! What is going on here, what's all the fuss about?" I interrupt Desmond.

"Ah, Y/N, please tell skeptical Charlie here that he's overreacting about the whole Claire accident!" Desmond begs.

"Are you toddlers still arguing about that? Claire almost drowned yesterday, but she is alive and well, all because of Desmond. Charlie, I really don't understand your frustration. Why aren't you just a little bit thankful or at least relieved?" I ask.

"Because it was obvious that he knew it was going to happen! How else would he be so quick to save her, hm?" Charlie asks me.

"It's impossible to look into the future Charlie, come on, just let Desmond be." I lie, knowing damn well that Desmond is able to look into the future.

"Of course you're picking his side! The little love duo against weak, little Charlie! I'm done with this. Cheers." Charlie yells as he turns around on his heel and walks off.

"I'm not picking anyone's side here Charlie, I'm just stating the–"

"Just let him throw his little tantrum, love. He'll come round soon. Thank you for sticking up for me without telling him the truth." Desmond says to me while gently grabbing me by my waist to look into my eyes.

"Of course darling, but you really can't keep going on like this. You'll have to save Charlie's life many more times."

Already understanding what I'm getting to, Desmond frowns and lets out a big sigh.

"He deserves the right to know about your visions. It's not fair to him. He looks so incredibly confused." I explain.

"I suppose you're right. I'll get to it once I see him again–"

"No Desmond, you go find him right now. You will not be able to get out of this one." I interrupt.

Desmond gives me a harsh but still slightly playful glare.

"Do I have to tell him now, love? Can't I just wait for the right moment until he's at least cooled down?" he begs, activating his puppy-eyes.

"Now is the right moment, Des! And by the way, I don't think Charlie is gonna calm down from this conflict anytime soon."

Desmond tries to object once again, but I react quickly, "I'll see you in about an hour in the hatch, assuming an hour is enough time to make Charlie believe your explanation, and you're going to tell me how it went. Bye, bye now darling."

I press a quick kiss to his lips and sprint off, leaving Desmond cursing to himself with a slight blush covering his cheeks.

[kettlequills]

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

[thelastspeecher]

Spirit Touched - Chapter 4: Baby Badger-Viper

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   Chapter 5   Chapter 6   AO3

I actually updated on AO3 yesterday, but I was too lazy to post the new chapter here.  So here’s the new chapter now.  Chapter 5 won’t go up until after I move next week, though, because I’m going to have to focus on packing and whatnot.

Again, this fic is inspired by @muffinlance‘s fic Salvage and fanart that @agent-jaselin did of it.  A component of this chapter is thanks to this art that jaselin did.

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              Hakoda should have known that whatever Tuluk had to say was trouble. The crewman had come into his cabin while he was responding to letters from the Northern Fleet – without knocking.

              “Chief?”  Hakoda set his pen down.

              “Yes?” he asked.

              “The kid’s up the mast again.”

              “The-” Hakoda’s eyes widened.  “Zuko climbed the mast?”  Tuluk nodded.  “He’s four!” Though, now that Hakoda thought about it, Zuko’s current age wasn’t as much of an impediment as it would have been to someone else.  This was, after all, the boy that had managed to bruise multiple crewmen while battling hypothermia.  Hakoda got up from his desk and followed Tuluk onto the deck.

              “You need to wear something!” Toklo called.  True enough, Hakoda could just make out a very young boy, sitting on the crossbeam of the main mast.

              “Tui and La, how did he get up there?” Hakoda breathed.  Much of the crew had stopped to watch the spectacle of a toddler up very high, in a very precarious, very dangerous situation. Even those who were taking longer to warm up to Zuko were visibly concerned for his safety.  The crewmen that had bonded with him, like Toklo, looked like they might have heart attacks.

              “No!” Zuko shouted down to Toklo.  His voice was petulant, but not in the way a prince would speak.  He sounded every bit the toddler he was.  “I won’t wear it!”

              “It’s the only thing in your size, Zuko,” Bato argued.  Hakoda walked to his second-in-command’s side.

              “What happened?” Hakoda asked.  Bato sighed and uncrossed his arms.

              “The little brat won’t put on a coat.”  Bato looked up the mast to shout again.  “Do you want to get sick again?”

              “Yes!” shrieked the small firebender.

              “Son of a-”  Bato rubbed his forehead.

              “Why won’t he put on a coat?” Hakoda asked.

              “The one he likes is still drying,” Toklo said.  “We had to wash it earlier.”  Washing it was the right move.  The last Hakoda had seen of the coat, it was covered in messes that only a clumsy toddler could make.

              “We got him another coat last time we docked,” Hakoda pointed out. Panuk snorted softly.

              “Yeah, and he hates it.”

              “Are you talking about me?” Zuko shouted.  “That’s not nice!”  Scattered snickers came from the crewmen.

              “I’ll get him,” Hakoda said wearily.

              For the second time, he climbed up the mast to retrieve a stubborn firebender. When he arrived at the crossbeam, Zuko glared at him.

              “Zuko, you can’t stay up here.”

              “Yes, I can!”

              “No, you can’t.”

              “Yes, I can!” Zuko said stubbornly.  Hakoda sighed.  He’d forgotten how difficult toddlers could be.  After all, it had been a while since his children were this young, and up until now, Zuko had been on his best behavior.

              “It’s not safe for you,” Hakoda said, forcing calm.  Zuko glanced down at the deck uncertainly, then met his eyes again with that distinctive glower.  But Hakoda had seen the brief flash of fear across the boy’s face. Zuko didn’t want to be up here any more than Hakoda wanted it.  “You’re coming down with me.”

              “No.”  Zuko fidgeted.  On a crossbeam.  That a fall from would cause serious injuries.  Hakoda fought the instinctual urge to grab the boy.  He waited.  Zuko clearly had more to say.  “…I’m scared,” Zuko finally whimpered.  “It’s taller than before.”

              “Well, you’re shorter than before,” Hakoda pointed out.  Zuko fidgeted again.  “I’ll carry you down, okay?”  After a moment, Zuko bobbed his head.  He scooted closer to Hakoda, who scooped him into one arm, stifling a sigh of relief.  Zuko buried his face into Hakoda’s shirt, hiding from the height or the eyes of the crewmen, Hakoda wasn’t sure.

              Once back on the deck, Hakoda set the boy down.  This incident with the mast was vastly different from the first; for one, the boy shivering in the cold wind looked nothing like the proud prince they’d fished from the sea.  With his blue clothes drying, Zuko was in his green Earth Kingdom attire again.  His hair, which Hakoda felt certain grew faster than normal, was tied back in the traditional wolf’s tail.  It took the shortest amount of time of any hairstyles the crew knew, and Zuko was too fidgety to sit still for a longer one.

              No, Zuko didn’t look like a prince.  He looked like a refugee.  Like one of the orphans that picked up a heritage from any adult willing to help them, and as a result, blended many backgrounds into one.

              It wasn’t entirely inaccurate, Hakoda considered, to think of the former Fire Nation Prince as a refugee.

              “Put on your coat,” Hakoda instructed Zuko, pushing away his musings. Zuko scowled.

              “N-n-no,” he said, his teeth chattering from the cold.

              “Wearing a coat you dislike is preferable to catching your death,” Hakoda said shortly.  Zuko opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but closed it again.  He nodded reluctantly.  Toklo, who had been standing nearby with said detested coat in his hands, moved forward and draped it over Zuko’s shoulders.

              “I can put it on myself,” Zuko whined as Toklo busily dressed him.

              “I’m just helping you with the buttons,” Toklo chirped, buttoning up the coat. He pulled the hood over Zuko’s head. “There!  Now you can stop shivering.”  Now that the coat was on, Hakoda could see why the boy hated it.

              “It looks even better than I thought it would,” Bato said, not bothering to hide the glee in his voice.  “We’d better keep you away from the birds.  They might think you’re a predator.”  Zuko scowled.

              “Of course you like it, you bought it,” he mumbled.  Bato grinned.  The coat was one made for children that enjoyed dressing up in costumes. It had ears on the hood and a tail on the back.  Overall, it brought to mind a simplified version of an animal Hakoda had heard of, but had not seen.

              “You make quite the fierce pygmy puma,” Hakoda remarked.

              Zuko pulled the hood further down his face, pouting.

----- 

              “He’s here, Chief,” Aake rumbled as he walked onto the deck, carrying Zuko over his shoulder.

              “Put me down, put me down!” Zuko shrieked, kicking his legs ineffectually. “I don’t need a nap!”

              “You sound just like Sitka when he gets overtired,” Aake said.  “That’s a sign that you do need a nap.”

              “No!” Zuko whined.  Aake handed the squirming toddler to Hakoda.

              “Zuko, we’ve been over this,” Hakoda said wearily.  Zuko wriggled fiercely in Hakoda’s arms.  A few sparks burst into life, meeting Hakoda’s skin and causing him to instinctively drop the toddler.  Unlike the first time he’d fallen to the deck, Zuko didn’t stay quiet. He burst into tears.

              “What is going on with him lately?” Panuk muttered.

              “He’s overtired, for one thing,” Aake said.  Hakoda picked Zuko up again and brought him to the infirmary, ignoring the boy’s crying.  “Toddlers always get worse when they need a nap.”

              “Yeah, but he’s been acting out even when he’s not tired,” Toklo pointed out. Aake shrugged.

              “Maybe he’s given up on pretending to be a teenager.”

----- 

              It took a long time for Zuko to calm down.  The moment he did, he fell asleep, exhausted from his temper tantrum. Kustaa shook his head.

              “It’s back to being the baby badger-viper you were when you first joined us, huh?” he asked the sleeping boy.  Zuko snored in response.  A thin line of drool dribbled down his cheek.  “At least you’re too small to bruise us every time you throw a fit.”  Zuko snored again.

              Satisfied that his young charge wouldn’t wake up for some time, Kustaa took out the book he’d been given by Healer Yugoda.  It was a record of every known instance the Northern Water Tribe had of someone being spirit touched.  Hopefully, he could find something in it to illuminate what had happened to Zuko. He sat down at his desk and began to read.

              Yugoda’s book was very, very detailed.  It included names that Kustaa half-remembered and others that he had never heard before, tales from both poles, ancient legends, and even recent instances, such as the Moon Spirit saving the life of a Northern Tribe Princess.

              The reasons spirits intervened in mortal affairs were varied, but a common one was for personal growth.  Spirits, despite being immortal, could be impatient with the pace of human development. Any human that had been marked as having a significant destiny was watched closely.  Should that human dawdle on their journey, a spirit might intervene.

              Kustaa wasn’t too familiar with Fire Nation customs, but he had heard that the royal family were thought of as being blessed by the Sun Spirit, Agni. Zuko, a Fire Nation Prince, would undoubtedly have a destiny the spirits might take interest in.  It seemed most likely that Zuko had been reverted to a child as some manner of speeding his journey.  After all, the other frequent cause of a spirit intervening – to save a life – didn’t apply.  Zuko had been hale and hearty the day before he woke up as a toddler.

              Unfortunately, there were no records that Kustaa could find of spirits returning someone’s youth.  Which dashed the hope that he might be able to figure out whether Zuko’s change in behavior was as troubling as it seemed.  Zuko didn’t seem to notice, but the rest of the crew had picked up on the firebender’s increasingly frequent meltdowns, immature speech patterns, and juvenile reactions.

              He could be upset about something, and slipping into more age-appropriate behavior as a coping mechanism.  It could be a delayed effect of this specific spiritual intervention. Or even an effect that only happens after being in a spirit touched state for an extended period of time. Maybe it’s as some crew are suggesting, that he’s given up hope of returning to his proper age, and as such, opted to give up acting as if he were that age.

              With a soft sigh, Kustaa closed the book.  There were too many possibilities, and he wouldn’t be able to narrow them down unless Zuko opened up.

              Fat chance of that happening.  There was faint stirring from Zuko’s furs.  Kustaa looked over.  A small face popped up.

              “Did you enjoy your nap, nephew?” Kustaa asked pleasantly.  Zuko yawned widely and stretched.  He nodded.  “Good.” A sudden stricken look crossed Zuko’s face.

              “Um…”  Zuko fidgeted.  “Can- can I stay in here for a while?” he asked sheepishly.  Kustaa raised an eyebrow.  “I…I behaved poorly earlier,” Zuko mumbled.  After he’d let Zuko wallow for a moment, Kustaa nodded.

              “I have some herbs that need sorting.  If you’d like, you can do that.”  Zuko beamed.  Kustaa fought back a smile in return.

              The kid was a beast when he was upset, but far more endearing than he had any right being.

              Like most young children.

----- 

              Hakoda browsed the selection of the store, in his peripheral, keeping an eye on Zuko.  The first few towns, he hadn’t been the only golden-eyed child, but as they progressed down the coast, his obvious Fire Nation heritage turned more and more heads. Luckily, any glares sent Zuko’s way were replaced by sheepish looks once they saw his scar.  The fact that Zuko preferred warm clothing, and thus dressed in Water Tribe attire more often, helped as well.  But Hakoda remained on edge.

              Someone tapped on Hakoda’s shoulder.  He turned.

              “Excuse me, sir, but is he your son?” asked the woman who had approached him. She pointed at Zuko, who was ogling a display of exotic spices.  Hakoda nodded.  “Ah.” A sympathetic expression settled on the woman’s face.  “It was very kind of you to keep him.”

              Hakoda knew what the woman was implying.  It was the lie he’d given over and over, that Zuko was a war bastard. But the lie suddenly tasted bitter. He’d seen the golden-eyed street urchins.  He knew that war bastards weren’t always kept.  Still, Hakoda couldn’t shake loose the dirty feeling that had come over him, at the suggestion that a mixed-blood child growing up in a home was an anomaly, not the norm.

              “Of course I kept him,” Hakoda said softly.  “He’s my son, regardless of his parentage.”  The woman smiled.  Zuko stood on his tiptoes, reaching for a bright red spice.  “Nuktuk.”  Zuko spun around.  The woman Hakoda was talking to let out a soft gasp.  “If you want to get a closer look at something, ask and I’ll get it for you.”  Zuko scowled. “We can’t have you knocking things over again.”  Zuko nodded reluctantly.  Hakoda walked over.  “What did you want to look at?”

              “That,” Zuko mumbled, pointing out the red spice.  Hakoda handed it to him.

              “This?”

              “Yeah.”  Zuko stared intently at the small bottle.  According to the label, it contained ground chilis and fire flakes. “I like this.”

              “Do you want it?” Hakoda probed.  After a moment, Zuko nodded.  “Then ask.”

              “Can I have it?” Zuko asked quietly.  Hakoda raised an eyebrow.  “Please?” Hakoda nodded.

              “Since you asked so nicely…”  Zuko handed Hakoda the bottle, already brimming with excitement.  “You can keep looking around, but remember to be careful.” Zuko nodded.  He toddled over to a wall of jars containing pickled vegetables. Hakoda turned to the woman he’d been speaking with.  Horror filled her eyes.

              “I’ve seen burns on refugees before, but never something that bad on someone so young,” she whispered.  “I’m so sorry.”  Hakoda paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to respond.

              “Thank you.  But it’s something we’ve done our best to move past.  Dwelling on it only makes it worse,” he said diplomatically.  The woman shook her head, still visibly disturbed. She walked over to Zuko and crouched next to him, speaking to him in a low voice.

              Hakoda watched for a few moments, nervous that Zuko might say or do something that made it obvious he wasn’t a regular toddler.  But the woman didn’t seem perturbed, so he resumed shopping. The woman eventually left Zuko’s side and went up to the register.  She stopped by Zuko again on her way out of the shop.

              Hakoda brought the supplies up to the register.  Zuko sidled over to him, a large stuffed animal turtle duck in his arms.

              “That thing’s almost as big as you,” Hakoda remarked.  Zuko scowled and hugged the toy tighter.  “I can’t buy it for you, you know.”

              “Not a problem, sir,” said the cashier, counting out Hakoda’s change. “Lily got it for him.”

              “The woman that was in here earlier?” Hakoda asked.  The cashier nodded.

              “Yup.  She’s got a soft spot for refugee kids.”  The cashier shook his head.  “It’s a shame what good people like you and your family have to deal with.  Leaving your life behind, taking only the barest of necessities…”

              “It’s war,” Hakoda said dryly.  The cashier handed Hakoda his change.

              “That it is.”

----- 

              Zuko’s poor behavior began to die down after that stop.  His stuffed turtle duck came with him almost everywhere.  It reminded Hakoda of the blanket Sokka had been overly attached to as a child.

              “Who would’ve thought the kid just needed a toy?” Bato remarked.  Some of the men were training on the deck. Zuko was watching, heckling those he thought could do better.  His sharp words were undercut by how tightly he hugged his stuffed animal.

              “A complete stranger in a store,” Hakoda said softly.

              “You mean the woman that bought it for him?”

              “Yes.  She was under the impression we were refugees whose only real possessions were the clothes on our backs.”

              “Huh.  Well, with Zuko, that’s actually pretty accurate.”

              “Exactly.”  Hakoda watched Zuko tease Ranalok for losing a sparring match.  “I don’t think Zuko qualifies as a refugee, but he’s pretty close to one.  His world’s been turned upside down multiple times.  I can’t believe I didn’t think of giving him a toy or blanket or-”

              “Hakoda, he’s been trying to act like a teenager for most of his time as a kid,” Bato pointed out.  “Don’t be too hard on yourself.  The good news is that the kid’s finally calming down again.”

              “We never did find out why he started acting up.”

              “Don’t look a gift ostrich-horse in the mouth,” Bato said with a shrug. Hakoda didn’t respond.  Zuko yawned widely.  Hakoda walked over.

              “Zuko, would you come with me?” Hakoda asked softly.  Zuko nodded.  He followed Hakoda into his cabin.  Hakoda lifted the boy onto the chair opposite his desk, then sat down.  Zuko looked at him, his eyes getting slightly bleary from tiredness.

              “What is it, Chief?” Zuko asked.  Hakoda steepled his fingers.

              “I want to talk about your behavior.”  That shocked him out of any sleepiness he might have had.  Zuko straightened, eyes wide with fear.  “Before you say anything, I’m not punishing you.  You’ve been very well-behaved since we last docked.” Zuko relaxed slightly.  “But for a rather long time, you were not.”

              “I’m sorry,” Zuko mumbled.

              “I don’t want an apology.  I’m just wondering if you could share with me the reason,” Hakoda said.  Zuko squeezed his stuffed turtle duck.  “After we parted ways with the Northerners, you began acting in ways you hadn’t before.  Why?”

              “Why are you asking me now?” Zuko mumbled.  “You should have asked while I was misbehaving.”

              “Do you remember how you refused to cooperate with something as simple as taking a nap?” Hakoda asked.  Zuko reddened.  He nodded. “That’s why I didn’t ask then.  I’m not going to judge you.  But if you know why you were behaving so poorly-”

              “I was upset,” Zuko blurted out.  Hakoda waited.  The boy didn’t say anything else.

              “Why were you upset?” Hakoda prodded gently.

              “Uncle,” Zuko mumbled.  He squeezed his toy again.  “I…miss him.”

              “Do you want to see him?”

              “Yes.  No. I-”  Zuko looked away.  “The spirits cursed me, and I don’t know why, and Uncle cares too much, and he’d ask questions I don’t know how to answer, and-”  Hakoda held up a hand.  Zuko fell silent.

              “You were conflicted,” he said.  Zuko nodded.  “You want to see your uncle, but you’re worried how the reunion might go.”  Zuko nodded again.  “You could have told us.”

              “No.  I’m already four.  I don’t need any more indignities thrust upon me.”

              “Zuko, when something troubles you so much that it affects your behavior, it’s something you need to share,” Hakoda said patiently.  Zuko scowled.  Hakoda felt like he was back in time, trying to convince Sokka to talk things out before escalating to a fight.  “Are you better now?”  The young firebender blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback by the apparent change in topic.

              “Sort of.  I mean, I still miss Uncle and feel…conflicted,” Zuko confessed.  “But it’s not as bad now.”  He looked down at his stuffed animal.  “I had one like this before.  Lu Ten gave it to me.”

              “Lu Ten?”

              “My cousin.  He- he died during the Siege of Ba Sing Se.”

              “Ah,” Hakoda said softly.  Zuko looked at him expectantly.  Hakoda raised an eyebrow.  “Yes?”

              “Am I excused?” Zuko asked.  Hakoda nodded.  Zuko hopped off the chair and rushed out of the cabin.  Hakoda leaned back.

              Despite all his protests to the contrary, he’s just a boy.  A boy that feels a bit safer when he has something of his own to cuddle.  Hakoda grimaced.  I can’t tell Toklo and Panuk that toys are apparently the key to getting Zuko to open up. They’ll bury him in stuffed animals.

----- 

              “Zuko.”  Zuko sat bolt upright.  He looked over at Kustaa.  The healer was still fast asleep.  Wondering if he’d imagined it, Zuko laid back down.  “Zuko.”

              Who’s saying that?  Zuko fought free of his pile of furs.  He slipped on a coat to protect himself against the night wind and snuck onto the deck as quietly as possible.  The night shift did their chores, not paying any attention to the toddler padding past them. Something guided Zuko’s feet to the edge of the ship.  He clambered onto the railing, ignoring Hakoda’s voice in the back of his head telling him to stop climbing things.

              The full moon shone in the sky.  Its mirror image on the still ocean was just as bright.  Zuko cocked his head curiously at it.  Normally, he could feel the influence of the moon decreasing his bending capability.  But tonight, he didn’t feel stifled.

              It’s probably because my bending is even weaker than usual right now. Zuko tilted his head back to look up at the stars.  A memory flashed in his mind: the first time he’d seen the spirit lights in the South Pole.  Uncle had been thrilled and dragged Zuko out of bed to watch.  He blinked, and the memory faded.  No colorful ribbons split the sky in two.  Stars scattered across the heavens like they had been spilled from a jar. The moon hung heavy.  Zuko sighed.  I should go back to bed.

              “Not yet, Prince Zuko.”

              “Just Zuko,” Zuko said instinctively.  His eyes widened.  A figure began to form out of the moon.  A young woman, about the age he’d been before the spirits cursed him.  She smiled sweetly.

              “Not cursed, Prince Zuko.  Blessed,” she said.  Her voice echoed across the waves.  She floated closer.  “And why would I not call you Prince?  It is your title.”

              “Not- not anymore,” Zuko stammered.  He resisted the urge to fidget.  Clearly, he was in the presence of a spirit.  He had to be on his best behavior.  The spirit settled next to him on the railing.  Zuko winced slightly; her bright glow hurt his bad eye.  Her eyes widened.  The glow surrounding her dimmed from the force of the full moon to a soft foxfire.

              “I apologize,” she said.  “This is the first time I’m really acting as a spiritual intermediary.”

              “But…you’re the moon spirit,” Zuko said, having finally recognized her. She smiled sadly.

              “Not always.  You can call me Yue.”

              “Yue.”  Zuko looked down at his hands.  “Yue, I- I can’t be the prince anymore.”

              “Why not?”

              “I just- I can’t.”

              “Hmm.”  Yue looked out across the water.  “If you want to renounce your title, it might behoove you to wait until you have a firm reason for doing so.”

              “…Maybe,” Zuko mumbled.  He took a deep breath.  “Why- why are you here?” he asked.  To his displeasure, it came out as a weak squeak.  Yue smiled fondly at him.  Her white hair billowed behind her, despite the complete lack of breezes.

              “It’s time you were told why the spirits have intervened with you.” Zuko whipped his head up to stare at Yue in shock.

              “That doesn’t happen very often.”

              “The general consensus is that you might not pick up on it on your own,” Yue confessed.  Zuko flushed in embarrassment.  “Prince Zuko, your personal journey, one that the spirits have been invested in, is unlearning what you were taught by your father.”

              “Like what?” Zuko asked.  “Give me an example.”  Yue’s mouth twitched.

              “They’re all examples.”

              “What?”

              “Children your age wear their hearts on their sleeves and don’t hide their intentions,” Yue said, changing the topic.  “They have no difficulty accessing the emotions that you grew up learning to stifle.  If you wish to be a kind, just ruler someday, you must relearn how to be vulnerable and open. You must abandon the idea that rage and fear are all that will make you strong.”

              “But that’s where firebending comes from.  Anger.”

              “Is it?” Yue asked, cocking her head.  Zuko blinked.  “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

              “It sounds like you want me to stop being Fire Nation.”  Zuko rubbed the back of his neck.  “Which…I sort of already have.”

              “No.  The Fire Nation is no more inherently bad than any other creed.”  Yue put a hand on Zuko’s back.  “It has a rich culture whose good aspects have been masked by the bad ones for a hundred years.”  She began to fade.  “Our time is coming to an end.”

              “What?  But you didn’t- you didn’t tell me anything!” Zuko protested.  Yue began to float away.

              “I did.”

              “No, you-”  Zuko huffed. “What am I supposed to do?  Am I even going to return to my proper age?”

              “That’s something only you can control,” Yue said softly.

              “Wait!” Zuko shouted at the spirit.  She was growing smaller, moving away from him, back to the moon hanging in the sky. “Wait!”  He got to his feet clumsily.  “That’s not a real answer, it’s-”  His already precarious balance on the rail failed as the ship hit a rough wave. Zuko toppled forward, falling overboard.

              Again.

              At least he was rescued quicker this time.  Ranalok had seen him lose his balance and fished him out of the ocean immediately.  Tuluk stood ready nearby with a towel.

              “Kid, you have to think of some new ways to drive us up the wall,” Tuluk said as he removed Zuko’s dripping outerwear.  Thankfully, he didn’t take off all of Zuko’s clothes, even though every stitch was drenched.  The crewman allowed Zuko some of the piddling amount of dignity the former prince had left. He wrapped Zuko tightly in the towel and dragged him to the infirmary.

              When Kustaa awoke and saw the soaked boy, he merely raised a silent eyebrow.

              “The baby badger-viper fell overboard,” Tuluk explained.  Kustaa sighed.  “Hopefully he won’t get sick this time.”

              “Hopefully,” Kustaa repeated.  Tuluk left.  Kustaa turned so that Zuko could undress and dry off.  “You realize what this means, right?”

              “…No,” Zuko said warily, scrubbing his hair with the towel.

              “Your clothes need to dry again.”  Zuko froze.  “Including your favorite coat.  So…” Zuko scowled as the coat he did not like one bit was tossed at him.  “Time to dress up like a pygmy puma.”

[21u004]

trust me / kita shinsuke + miya osamu / december 25th, 2020

If there was any word you’d choose to describe home, it was ‘quiet and warm’. So, now that it’s loud and cold, you’re in a dilemma whether to still call it home or just call it a house instead.

But at that moment, after thinking for a while, you decide to call it a house. Nothing but four walls, a floor and a roof; photos and memories hung on the walls that seemed to grow meaningless day by day; furniture you both bought and built together that seemed to get weaker and break anytime soon; a lover that felt more like a stranger—a roommate—if there was still a bit of kindness in you. It didn’t matter if it was care for you or the place he lived in. But if you were asked, it felt more like care for his space and territory of the house you shared instead of you. Everything was quiet around you and yet so loud in your head with your thoughts to screaming at you.

You two were especially close together at night, yet it felt like you two were seas apart from each other.

There was anything but courage in you to confront him about things you think he never did nor would even do at all, but the voices in your head don’t silence themselves and continue to plague your mind with the ideas you least wanted to happen to you and him. It didn’t feel right saying “us”, so for yesterday, way before that, today, and until the day your thoughts finally disappear, you refer to yourselves as “you and I", and it tasted bittersweet at the tip of your tongue, and it still does. What was supposed to be “I’ll wait until we can eat dinner together” ended up being “I can’t eat dinner with you tonight”.

There’s warmth and a welcoming home in his eyes when he looks at someone else. It felt awfully familiar to you because you did know, see, and feel it when he looked at you then. Your stomach churns at the thought of it; him giving someone else what used to be yours and yours only. It wasn’t you to blame for that feeling, you think, as it was his fault for sharing something that you think shouldn’t be shared. But half of you thought it was just you being a little selfish, even though you don’t mean to be. What was supposed to be yours was yours. The love for a family, a friend, and a significant other had its own boundaries, and the second seemed to forget where they stood, crossing the borders. He doesn’t stop it at all and continues to do it, a tender smile coming along with it most of the time that made you feel like you were stepping on soft, muddy ground every time you’d see him do it. You don’t know whether it’s his face or the genuineness that made you want to throw up everything you ate even if you had none. It’s possibly the latter; he’d been blessed with ethereal features that made you wonder if he was even real or not, and it was a blessing to see it most of the time. Although right now, it was the last thing you wanted to look at.

You don’t remember the last time you’ve shared dinner without a fight, but you figure it’s been long with the sigh of relief Shinsuke heaves.

You don’t look his way and he doesn’t look yours, but temptation got the best of you. Even for a second, a single glance of his face was enough for you to see the gloomy and soulless expression on his face. He looked anything but happy to be with you.

You take a few moments to choose between leaving him be or confronting him about how ungrateful he seemed to eat with you in silence, afraid of predicting the truth. Thinking that it was best for you to leave, you open your mouth and let whatever words in your head be thrown out of your mouth.

“It’s not nice to have a depressed look on your face in front of food,” you say, eyes still on the food in front of you.

“But I’m not,” he replied firmly and continued to eat.

“I didn’t say you were. But saying that, maybe you really are,” you take a small sip of water inside the glass on your right.

Shinsuke remains calm. Or at least he tries to. He didn’t want another fight, and neither did you, so when he keeps eating, the tight grip on your chopsticks loosened.

You don’t say anything to get him respond, afraid to start shouting at the top of each other’s lungs. Like they always do, the voices in your head take this chance to try to make you feel upset.

But instead of feeling mad, sorrow resides in your soul, and you wish he still had empathy or sympathy left in him. He had lots of it left; he was the embodiment of it. But what was left wasn’t for you.

Shinsuke doesn’t feel or see blue devils controlling you so he leaves you be. The Shinsuke now was different from then, and that was the only thing you were sure of at the moment.

Tired of keeping to yourself, you lean back, hands covering your face and groan into your palm.

He pauses, and looks at you for a while, then asks a “what?” that sounded displeased and annoyed more than ever.

It didn’t sound the same as it was back then, but he wasn’t to blame since he probably already knew what you were going to say.

And he was right.

“Do you still love me?”

He’s lost count of the times you’ve asked him this question. This was the only thing you’ve asked him or even said to him for who knows how long that he’s tired of it.

He was tired of the question and answering, but if he was honest, and he was, he was and would never be tired of you.

So, he tells you the truth for the hundredth time.

It grows silent, and the thoughts in your head finally give you the something close to the peace you’ve wanted since day one. It’s not enough, but you were just grateful to have this. You wanted to cry and spill the glasses of tears you’ve filled the past few weeks, but your eyes never went along with your will and kept itself dry. It only cries when you don’t want to, and when you want to, it’s as dry as a desert.

Lots of words were waiting to be said and all of it were at the tip of your tongue, but the rest of dinner went on quietly for the first time in months.

Still, you couldn’t call this home. Home was warm, and this was anything but that. It felt cold but that wasn’t new to you. Home was only a distant memory now.

The blanket you were wrapped in didn’t help at all with the cold. No matter how many times you moved around and what position you were in, it only got colder, and colder, and colder. Shinsuke was lying on the other side, facing away from you. He felt cold too, but never said he was. Maybe if you had asked him, only then would he admit it.

Pride was something that both of you learned to give up for the other, but at this point it wasn’t even pride that was getting in between you two. What was supposedly pride, was fear.

The fear of both right and wrong and being right or wrong; the fear of restless nights and days spent fighting over nonsense; the fear of breaking and chipping at each other until everything’s turned to dust and impossible to build back up; the fear of having to let go and most of all—the truth.

Love was and will always be complicated. Falling and being in love was as easy as breathing, and yet falling out of it was as if you’re drowning. You try your best to breathe normally, but when you do, water slowly fills your lungs instead of air and it stings.

Unfortunate ones easily give in and let themselves drown while others fight to live but as water enters their lungs, they slowly let the pain numb them and finally let go. If you were lucky enough, you could get rescued and spared from the suffering. And unfortunately enough, you feel the water in your lungs.

'Do you feel like you’re running out of breath too?’ is what you want to ask, but you don’t, afraid of his answer.

The thought of him falling out of it while you stayed felt like walking on pins and needles. If by chance, that he’s only there out of pity, you’d rather not know.

'I’m getting tired of this,’ he says in his head.

'Don’t you trust me?’ he wants to ask, but he keeps his lips sealed and eyes shut as an attempt to fall asleep.

Shinsuke thinks it’s best to talk about this, about everything that’s happening for him to at least process it carefully and be able to fix it. And he was right. But in the end, he still made the wrong choice, aware yet also clueless about the end results.

He figures that it’d be best to come to you, but with the dread seeping through his skin and crawling to the left of his chest, it’s unlikely of him, but he chooses to talk about you instead of to you.

Tension was thick in the air when there’s only him and you in a room, and nothing but sharp words were thrown at each other. It’d always end in either of you out of breath and things to say, and even when you both zip your lips, the words from moments ago resound in the walls and in your heads.

A small 'sorry’ would leave his lips and yours. It wasn’t too soft for the other to not hear it, but it wasn’t too loud either that it’d reach all corners of the room. Sorry was just another word, and there was nothing more to it unless said with sincerity.

'We’re getting worse,’ you think and smile to yourself.

'Nothing’s getting better,’ Shinsuke thinks and uses 'better’ instead of 'worse’, thinking that it would at least lighten the heaviness he feels. It does nothing at all, yet he tells himself it really is 'better’.

You’ve forgotten how it feels to have his skin touch yours; how it feels and what’s in his eyes when he sees you. You long for it, but a part of you doesn’t want to find out how it feels. It tells you there’s nothing but pain when you feel it again, and it takes over your mind for now and until this was fixed. If there was even a chance that this could be fixed.

Shinsuke believes it could be if he finds out what to do with you. Thinking of it only stressed him out even more that he feels exhausted after just that and he blames the sprains and aches in his body from working on thinking of it.

'Trust me’ is what you want to hear from him and feel assured that he’d never do anything to ruin whatever you both had, but Shinsuke wasn’t a psychic and never said it, not knowing that you ever wanted to hear it.

He tells it to someone else instead—someone close to you—that you should trust him. It’s pointless but he doesn’t realize that it was, too distracted with the relief he feels from being able to finally talk to someone without a fight or a word at the top of his lungs.

“This feels refreshing. I’ve forgotten how it feels to be able to talk so freely and lightheartedly. So, thank you,” he tells her, and there’s a soft, genuine smile that comes along with it. The one he’s flashed only at and for you, until now.

“I know she can be a handful sometimes, but you can talk to me. This is nothing,” she returns the smile and looks him in the eye, something that you haven’t done and weren’t able to do for the past year, scared to see dark and murky eyes. Shinsuke thinks there’s nothing wrong with this. He wasn’t in a relationship with her and he really still does love you. Shinsuke thinks there’s nothing wrong with this, only because he doesn’t think of every other factor.

He was never one to grow an ego out of compliments given to him or use it against others, but at that moment, it makes him think that nothing’s wrong. He was only talking, enjoying and spending time with someone else—more than he does with you. Too blinded and focused on what was behind you, he doesn’t realize he’s already walked past you and reached for someone else.

Shinsuke doesn’t realize the mistake he’s done until you rubbed it in his face.

Work had troubled you enough already, and you thought that that was the last of it. Instead of the quiet, empty living room that you’ve gotten used to being the only thing that greets you at evening, there’s two familiar faces, not even a single centimeter of space between each other, fingers through black and white strands of his hair and his hands on someone’s waist and cheek, caressing it the same way it did yours. It seemed to fit perfectly. Maybe even more than it did with yours.

That sight was enough to confirm that the rumors you make up were true. And there it was again, your mind a disaster, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, feet glued to the ground, and voices talking loudly both in your head and from the surroundings.

“It’s not- it’s- just- please let me explain,” Shinsuke’s words come out breathless, and there’s fear in his eyes and hers.

You couldn’t move at all for an answer. Not a nod nor a shake of your head; not a swallow of the lump formed in your throat. Arms slacking by your side, fingers twitching and aching to grab onto anything or wipe your tears that you’ve been itching to spill, but you stand still, attempting to keep your breaths steady through your mouth because of the stuffy nose from the cold weather that was getting worse because of this.

The woman who was molded as if it was just for him, the person you’ve spent half your life with and was with you through good and bad didn’t even say a word at all as she should, and hung her head low, heavy with remorse.

The words you told her before resonate in your head, and you feel as if she’s ignored and threw away the sincerity of it all.

Shinsuke’s stopped talking, not a single word in his head or leaving his mouth to provide an explanation like what he said he would do earlier.

The tension was suffocating everyone in the room, and the cold wind that blows past all of you felt like needles instead, and for the first time in months, you looked straight into his eyes. It was blurry, but you could see and feel the shame and terror in them.

Had you not been crying, it would be completely quiet with how tightly sealed their lips were, not the slightest gap visible.

The pressure was enough with three people already there, but you were grateful that someone’s come inside more than anything.

“Hey, you left your-“

Everyone’s attention was gathered up on the familiar, tall, broad-shouldered man in a black long-sleeved shirt and cap at the door, your phone in his hand.

With the tears already running down your face, you’re able to make out his face.

“Osamu.”

He feels goosebumps when he’s given a few seconds to see the horror in his former captain’s eyes, and it doesn’t take long for him to register what was happening.

You don’t hesitate to completely turn around to face him and drag him out with you with no intention of returning to where you were standing from.

Osamu does nothing to resist because he knows that was the best choice for him and for everyone else. As much as he didn’t want to get dragged into the mess, he doesn’t regret coming over since it meant getting you out of it.

You learn that it was much colder back inside with them than it was outside with Osamu when the air hits you.

It slaps reality into your face, telling you that you’re here and this wasn’t a dream. A single inhale of the cold air stings your lungs and pricks your skin like ice cubes on bare skin. It reminds you that you can’t go back and you don’t want to go back either, that there’s nowhere to go, that you were given what you’ve been looking for.

Foolishness buds in you when you realize you’ve only been looking at everything through rose-colored glasses.

'I’m okay. It’s okay,’ repeats in your head. You feel even more stupid when you hear yourself say it.

Osamu stands there, thinking of what to do. You’ve let go of him, and a part of him wished that you didn’t.

It felt like he’d cut himself from handling a knife in the wrong way like when he first tried using one. The last time he’d seen you from an hour ago was that you were still able to put up a small smile. Even if it was forced.

He thinks about what he’d seen; Shinsuke sitting with another woman on a couch who looked straight down and you, frozen in your place and a tear-streaked face.

There’s empathy in Osamu; a different kind that Shinsuke had, and you were glad that it was.

'Cruel’, he calls the man everyone relied on and idolized back then. Still, he thinks that wasn’t enough after Shinsuke threw away a quarter worth of time of your lives down the drain. Osamu stares into space.

—

"Has Kita-san done anything awful?” you ask the boys resting on the bench for a break.

“If you consider getting slapped with the truth awful,” Aran replied. “But I don’t think so.”

“Eh? But everyone’s made at least one mistake! That’s impossible!” Atsumu shouts and earns a smack on his back from Aran to quit shouting.

“Well, he’s called Mr. No-gaps-Kita for a reason, right?” Akagi sighs, taking a sip of the water bottle in hand. “And it’s just really hard to catch him do anything wrong. We tried so many times before already.”

"His ritual doesn’t include making mistakes, doesn’t it,” Omimi talks, sounding less like a question and more of a fact.

“Well, it’s amazing he can keep that ritual flawless,” Suna says, and Osamu and Ginjima sitting beside him could do nothing but nod to agree. “What a monster.”

—

"Guess we were wrong,” a heavy sigh escapes his lips and he looks at you. The small cut became a sharp stab in his chest. Although he wasn’t in the right place to say it hurts him even more to see you in pieces when it was you that was going through it.

The ache in his chest was excruciating, and he could only imagine how you felt. He decides to keep his hands by his sides and not touch you without your consent. The constant vibrating of the phone—your phone—in his hand annoyed him enough, so when he checks it and sees his contact name and photo displayed on the screen, he only presses decline and shuts it off. Had it been his phone he would’ve thrown it away.

He remembers the time he’d seen on your phone. 9:56.

“Uh… Hey, d'ya wanna go t'Onigiri Miya first?” he asks and places a hand at his nape. “I just hafta close it 'n’ then we can go home…"

'We can go home.'

It feels new hearing it from someone else other than Shinsuke and after who knows how long. Instead of a new that’s uncomfortable, it’s the endearing kind; the kind that’s warm and welcoming you with open arms. (It was something you’ve experienced when you were first introduced to his family.)

And Osamu was just that. He was more than willing to let you in and provide you your needs.

"That’s…that’s too much,” you shake your head and take a step back from him, holding your hands up and waving them in the air.

“Well, d'ya have any place to stay then? I’ll gladly escort ya,” he says, taking off the cap, giving you a clearer view of his face.

A few seconds pass, and Osamu thinks it’s you thinking of an answer to his question, but it’s just you being in awe of him.

Nostalgia hits you when you look at him, and there’s a sudden yearning for something in him that you couldn’t quite point out. You don’t know if it’s because you’ve known each other for almost a decade now, but something about him feels familiar. There’s a soft glint in his eyes, and even just the sight of it was enough to make you feel a little less cold in this freezing night. After swallowing the lump in your throat, you don’t say anything at all. He was right. There was nowhere you could stay now that you were out of the place you lived in with someone before. So, you take the only choice given to you, as embarrassing it made you feel.

Osamu notices the crimson scarf hanging out your bag, and pulls it out without warning.

“Osamu, that’s-”

Before you get to complain about the sudden pull, it’s already wrapped around your neck snuggly, covering your mouth as well. Your face blends with the color of the scarf, and you bury the half of your face in it, feeling a little ticklish on your lips. The action feels familiar, and you swear something similar has happened before, you just couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

A cab stops right before you, and Osamu steps back and gestures at you to enter. The kind gesture was enough for your lips to curve up into a smile after always having it in a straight line or curved down into a frown. And just like earlier when you had looked at him and had him wrap a scarf around you, it evokes a sense of nostalgia and familiarity in you. At this point, you weren’t even sure about anything. It was too late and sleep was what you needed the most.

Like other taxis, it had this new car smell that made you feel sick to no end. Dizzy, you lean against the window, and try your best to sleep.

Something keeps dragging Osamu’s gaze back at you every time it looks away and roams around, and the ghost of your hand against his wrist made him crave your touch even more.

Your open hand sitting between you two tempted him to put his hands on it and intertwine it, but he knows better than to get intimate with a person he’s met only again today after weeks, moreover, a person who’s just gotten their heart broken. He knows it’d only hurt both of them in the end. So instead, he tries to recreate the same hold you had on his wrist from earlier, but it doesn’t feel the same. With a sigh, he gives up and looks at you, eyes as gentle as ever and the sight reminds him of high school.

—

“Kiss her, prince charming,” Suna says teasingly, a playful smirk plastered on his face, and takes a photo of the two.

Osamu rolls his eyes and hits Suna’s arm playfully, and they get back to being quiet. Neither of the two ever wanted to wake you up for jokes. They did it once, and once was enough for them to learn that they should never interrupt your sleep again.

Osamu says it’s just for that reason, but Suna and Atsumu know that it’s also because of the youngest’s genuine concern and care for you.

Atsumu didn’t know better than the other two, and so he came into the class shouting, also leaving it, still shouting but with a sleepless madwoman chasing him this time.

—

Like it was then, Osamu still doesn’t want to wake you up. But before he even gets the chance to wake you, you’ve already had your eyes opened and a little sore from the crying earlier.

“I paid already,” Osamu says in a gentle voice just as you were about to pull your wallet out, and it felt eerily familiar. Too exhausted to think, you let go of it. Most stores were closing or were closed already, and inside Onigiri Miya were a few workers that seemed to wait for Osamu to get back. And then you wonder, ‘Couldn’t he have just sent one of them?’, but the questions left to be asked and answered for another day when you enter the place.

Surprisingly, the almost empty place brings you comfort unlike it usually does. You think it’s because you wanted anything but company as of the moment, but Osamu’s company could be an exception.

The last three people, excluding you and Osamu, left the moment he told them they can. There’d only been three dim lights left lit, but Osamu opens a few more around the whole place for each corner.

For you, it wasn’t enough, but for now, the least you could do was help him check if everything was in good condition and all unused plugs were left unplugged, like you two always did when you were in charge of closing the classroom from your first years until you both graduated.

—

“'Samu! All’s closed and good!” you shout from the back of the room, your voice coming out slightly muffled because of the shelves in front of you.

“Hey! Look what I found!” Osamu called, and laughs that same lighthearted laugh you’ve obliviously grown so fond of over the past few months.

Hurrying over to his side, you find him looking through someone’s notebook—Atsumu’s.

“What’s so fu-”

You break out into laughter after seeing its contents. It was embarrassing, both for you and Osamu, Atsumu as well. And as funny as it was, you and the other just wanted your eyes bleached.

“If he wasn’t my brother, I’d show this to everyone,” Osamu says and yet he proceeds to take a photo of a few pages he found the dumbest and sends it to Rintaro and hides the notebook in his bag. Atsumu was probably going to hear about this not even an hour after Osamu sends it to Suna.

(You two were right. Before the two of you could even leave the classroom, Osamu’s phone was bombarded with texts from Atsumu, mostly weak to no damage threats.)

(Osamu only shut his phone off and when you both stepped into the gym, an angry and embarrassed Atsumu was stomping over to the two to you.)

(Shinsuke stops him and saves the two of you.)

(Shinsuke.)

—

“Shinsuke.”

“What?” Osamu asks, even though he’s heard it clearly. He tells himself he didn’t.

“Ah, nothing. It’s nothing,” you tell him, and it was obvious that he didn’t believe you. It was an obvious lie anyway.

“Well, c'mon. I wanna go home already, don'tcha wanna go home too?” he asks. “Because look, if ya don’t wanna, I’m fine with leaving you on the streets.”

He gets a punch on his bicep.

He doesn’t get hurt, but your knuckles do.

If Osamu learned to not wake you up, you learned not to punch him. It’s amazing that he still managed to stay fit even after his quitting his volleyball career, you think.

“It’s not like you can accept the fact that I’m sleeping on the streets anyway,” you tell him and he ruffles your hair and chuckles.

“Well, yer right about that,” he starts. “Wanna live with 'Tsumu then?” he adds, smirking and wiggles his brows at you. If you weren’t in such a low mood you would have laughed and told him they looked like caterpillars dancing.

“Shut up and let’s go already. I have an appointment at one 'til four AM. Exclusively for crying and rethinking life,” you sigh, wiping your under eyes that didn’t seem to dry.

“There’s space for one more, right?” he asks, handing you a bottle of water. After taking a sip of it, you stare at him for a few seconds, nodding as you faced the other way. You hated company and preferred being alone when your burdens were getting heavy, but Osamu’s was an exception.

You didn’t think Osamu was serious about it.

You wouldn’t complain about it though.

It’s 3:06 AM on a Saturday and here you are, sitting awake on Osamu’s bed with a now cold, half-full bowl of the soup he cooked an hour ago, mind a whole mess, countless tears racing down your face.

Osamu’s sitting on a chair facing his bedside lamp, his bowl now empty, sympathizing with you. Your eyes were aching to shut themselves, but you keep it wide open, and the tears weren’t helping you stay awake. It stings your eyes instead, and forces you to close it from time to time. You both had gotten an hour and a half of sleep before this, thankfully enough. And thanks to Osamu once again, you were able to get a shower and change into new clothes. Osamu only said 'it’s nothing’ over and over again, and seemed to take your thanks as a joke. Still, you were glad to have left your phone when you came to eat, or else you wouldn’t be here. Although your phone was left uncharged in the living room on power off, if there was anything you needed, it was anything but his messages and missed calls.

There’s an unknown force that’s pushing against your chest, attempting to restrict your breathing. And maybe your beating heart as well. Breaths were taken and getting much deeper and slower second by second, and there’s not much energy left in you to move your fingers but it shudders subconsciously from time to time.

And for once, finally, your eyes were dry and drained from the tears, but there’s still evidence of it, and there were lots. Red’s never been more prominent in your eyes and there’s nothing else to blame it on but the exhaustion and the cause of wet trails down your face.

Had it been him there with you, you’d probably be sleeping by now, nowhere near comfortably but not close to discomfort either. But it was him, so how could it not be pleasurable at all?

He would take care of you so well; he’d get worried about you more than anything; he’s willing to make you something to eat in the morning; he’s willing to listen to you at the deepest hours of the night and before the dawn breaks at the start of a new day; he would make you feel like there’s nothing as important as you; he’d never let you go on a whole day without eating three meals, drinking 12 glasses of water, and eight hours of sleep in a way where you’re actually motivated to do it; he’d never force things on and out of you.

He was just the whole package. The whole deal. The guy that everyone wanted to have, but couldn’t, and yet you did. And so, you cherished and got cherished, you loved and got loved, cared for and got taken care of. You did have him—and for so long too—and there was a dream of a humble, quiet home that’d be accepting and a home which spoke of love. A home whose warmth never runs out and gets flooded with it instead.

You had that all. There your whole dream was, laid right before you. You were even allowed to do it with someone that you loved, and still do love. And before you could even finish building that home, still in the process, it’s all gone not in a second, but for months, slowly chipping at the corners, and the cracks from it continued to worsen, worsen, and worsen, to the point that it was incapable of rebuilding. Before you and him knew it, there’s nothing left but fragments and fractions of a relished past; a love that’s found once in a lifetime; a love that promised to last, but promises were meant to be broken.

That was the nature of it—love.

It was incomprehensible and tormenting, yet still managed to pull people in it with each other. It felt like skydiving. It’s horrifying and yet so mesmerizing at the same time. Some are willing to fall; others are afraid. There’s no knowing where you could land or even a chance of surviving it. You could fall first, see the beauty of it all, and there’s either someone or no one to watch the blues, greens, whites, yellows, and colors that could never be named nor exist with.

In the middle, there’s a parachute to open to slow down and ease the falling, and it either works or it doesn’t. You’ll either be at the stairway to heaven or the gates of hell. If you’re blessed, all of it will work and there’s the calm and the soft. If you’re not, one or all doesn’t work. Someone’s willing to either let you go, go down with you, or spare you the pain and fear of it all. And he chooses the option you think he’d pick the least.

Let you go.

Promises you told one another were now nothing but empty words and dust. So now, it’s just you holding onto dear life, hoping for some miracle to happen and keep you from seeing whichever of the two endings that you didn’t know which one you’d meet.

A fruity, sweet scent of mixed berries fills your nose. For someone that seemed to be into the savory side of the spectrum, Osamu sure liked sweet scents.

—

“Ah, berries are a little weird. Too sweet and too sour at the same time,” Suna rolls his tongue out to mock you and you try not to land a fist on his face.

“Yet you love fruit jelly sticks,” you scoff.

“Those are different,” he replies as a matter of fact.

“But they taste pretty good, y'know. Berries,” you say calmly, trying not to pinch him while you sit beside him.

“Ask 'Samu then. He’ll prove it to you,” Rintaro tells you, and with that you two call him over. Rintaro knew that this was just proving your point, and honestly, he didn’t care at all whether he wins or loses this argument. All he knows is that when Osamu comes, it’s not you nor Rintaro that loses, but Osamu.

—

The scent of mixed berries in the shirt you wore were strong, and it’s intoxicating your senses. It makes you feel a little light headed as time passes, but you try to fight it.

You love that it smells like your favorite, but hate that it doesn’t smell like him. Someone you love because you still love him in the present—now. Frustrated, you wanted to pull your hair out from being aware of the fact that you’re still trying to compare him to the one who’s giving you shelter after the storm, yet you don’t stop.

'Something’s off,’ you think, and there’s no confirming whether you were right or wrong with how much of a mess everything was.

With the spoon in your hand, you try to slowly mix what was left of the soup in the bowl, thinking what could possibly be bothering you. There were lots of things bothering you for sure, so it was pointless to even try to find something.

Trying your best, you call out to Osamu, your voice sounding hoarse and scratchy and merely just a whisper. Still, Osamu finds it nice—your voice and you trying. So, he turns to you, softly smiling at you, but there’s pain in it.

There’s misery and anguish in the way he looks at you, and it makes you feel all sorts of guilt, grief, and even a hint of gratefulness. It starts as light little drops, a light rain shower. It was the calm before the storm. And then it all comes crashing down onto you, hard and strong. This was the storm, and there’s nothing to shield you from it. For one moment you’re whispering Osamu’s name, and then in the next, you’re crying someone else’s. You were already having a hard time with the three, but apparently it wasn’t enough. And so, your mind decided to play tricks on your heart, and now there’s regret, shame, and the feeling of being lost added to the mix.

Guilt for dragging Osamu into your mess.

Grief for the reality that you tried so hard to think as a lie.

Gratefulness for Osamu and the feeling of acceptance and being understood; something that’s been long since you last felt it; something that he once gave you.

And there’s regret. Lots of it. One for not confronting him about this sooner; maybe if he knew what was on your mind, this wouldn’t have happened. One for leaving them without a single word to explain the situation; even if there wasn’t going to be anything to explain, it derived from baseless hope, but there’s a part of you that thinks—lies to itself—there was one. There were too much to count that it’d take you days to weeks.

Shame for being so vulnerable in front of the man who saved you from having to endure the suffering when you couldn’t take a single more second from that misery and from living in the streets. You wished for some decency in you to show, but every time you do, it’s only shame and more wet streaks forming on your face and puddles on the shirt, body, and the sheets.

Lost because you don’t get anything of this at all. It all made sense and at the same time, nothing did. There’s a flood of questions waiting to be answered sit in your head and not even one gets drained out.

Just when you thought you’ve had enough of crying and that there’s nothing left, another batch of it comes out.

Osamu thinks, 'maybe it’s fine’.

Too fixated on the cold air of the night and how cold it feels against your moist skin and clothes, the warmth that suddenly surrounds you feels overwhelming, but you embraced it—him—fully, no intention of letting it go. Shinsuke was too much to let go already.

Moonlight feels more meaningful and like there’s something more to it than just another light when there’s warmth, and there’s a blossoming tickling feeling inside of you. It was satisfying to watch the moonlight dance over the floor, the bed, and everything else, and even though you don’t forget the suffering you were going through—still are going through—there’s a surge of comfort and coziness, as if to distract you from or lessen the pain.

'Thank you’ is what’s sitting on the tip of your tongue, waiting to be said to the man who’s embraced you and still is, but only soft and loud cries, deep and light breaths come out of your lips.

'You’ll be okay. I’m here,’ is what’s in Osamu’s head, and he chooses not to say it even if you had wanted to hear it. He decides to say it some other time and listen to all of your heartbreaks for now, and again, you want to thank him even more.

'Thank you’ is what you want to tell the soft rainfall for keeping your pains unrecognizable and incomprehensible from the rest of the world.

The rest of the night’s wrapped in serenity, and for once, it doesn’t feel like the world’s going to end.

What you thought was going to only happen once happened twice, and then it tripled, and so on that you’ve lost count.

It’s weeks before you realize that it’s already been months since the first night of your stay and cry at his home that it felt like yours too because it was.

Home, you say, because it feels like it.

Pain was inevitable, so Osamu was there to relieve it. He wishes to get rid of it, but being able to make you feel less like the worst and more important, and taken care of, and loved, was enough for the two of you.

And it continues—the peace—with Osamu.

It lives on until now, and it tells you to face the reality of the present.

No one can get spared the truth, and no matter how much or how long they get to avoid it, one day, it’ll show at the door, and you either greet it with acceptance or denial. But when it knocks on your door, you keep the door closed and wait for it to leave and come back some other day. But it was patient and would rather wait for you to give in.

“Y/n, ya good? You’ve been starin’ at nothing for a while now.”

Three onigiris leaning onto each other was placed before you, plating clean and satisfying as ever, always reaching expectations and even passing at times.

Unlike his twin, Osamu wasn’t a perfectionist. He didn’t care much about things and was laid back most of the time.

That’s what you’d say and think if you hadn’t known the man for a decade, more or less.

They were twins. Osamu was a perfectionist like Atsumu was; he was as competitive as Atsumu was; he could get as loud as the older twin if he wanted. They were twins, and as much as they seemed different, they mirrored one another. Osamu was only better at hiding it and had no intention of being annoying. But if there was anything Osamu was better than Atsumu, it was listening and taking care of others and himself. It never came in your mind that he was, but he’s proved it enough already to let you know.

“How long has it been since then?” looking down, you ask, then take the onigiri in between your fingers, admiring the sharp edges.

The scent isn’t strong, but it’s there. Even an inhale of the pickled plums was enough to leave a distinct taste on your tongue, and when you finally take a bite of it, salty and sour dance on your tongue. It was to be expected with how many times he’s served this to you—made just for you—not as chef and customer, but as close friends giving and taking comfort.

There’s a needle pricking Osamu’s left chest when he remembers you two were nothing but that, yet he still manages to ignore and hide the pain growing inside of him.

Even if he doesn’t want to answer it, he still does. “It’s been… eight months.”

Eight months.

Eight months since you last talked to or even saw him.

—

'20 new text messages from 'idiot’’

'7 new text messages from 'shin’’

'3 missed calls from 'shin’’

Seeing not much messages on the screen of your phone makes you think he doesn’t care as much as you thought he did. Afraid to accept that, you tell yourself it’s only seven because it’s all long messages and a complete explanation, and it wasn’t a good idea at all. There’s an urge to delete all traces of him on your phone, thinking it was for the best and it would be easier for you. Yet no matter how much times you tell yourself that, the photos, his contacts, everything about him stayed in your phone. That was if you were the one to do it. “Osamu… Can, can you do me… A favor?”

Osamu doesn’t waste a single second and agrees to you in an instant.

Shame and guilt get planted into him after realizing what he’s agreed to.

“Delete everything of them here. Please.”

—

"I want to see him, 'Samu,” you confess as your voice started to crack. “I… I… 'Samu, I can’t… get used to this.”

Osamu stops whatever he’s doing, and he takes this chance to process what you just said. “Are you sure?” He asks, looking right into your eyes.

It feels a lot more different than usual. It’s strange and painful when you look back at him. Your words were caught up in the back of your throat, and your lips were pressed together, quivering. Any word or even just a small open of your mouth, you’ll be breaking down and cause a commotion. Looking down and staying still does nothing to stop your tears from flowing down, but with your lips still tightly pressed into a thin line and you biting on it, you make the least noise you possibly could.

The question repeats again in your head, and like every other time, you don’t know the answer and you’re stuck between choosing yes or no. Even the simplest questions baffled you, and you’re back to being the indecisive little kid from more than ten years ago, only depending on other people’s opinion and have them make their choices for you.

Osamu knows he can’t keep you to himself forever, though he doesn’t want to let you go either. So, he quietly waits for your answer, while there’s a lingering pain in his chest that worsens by the minute, anticipating a “no” out of your mouth.

“I don’t… I don’t even know. I just- I just miss him. And if I can’t have him then… then I have no idea what to do.”

Osamu gulps, stopping to look at you. Concern was painted in his face, and it feels as though something was piercing his chest. More tears well up in your eyes and his, and there’s nothing clear to see, for the both of you, whatever you both looked at was nothing but a huge blur. But being in a public place, he leaves you alone and enters the back of the place to hide and give himself time to think. You think it’s fair for him, so you don’t complain.

Instead, you finish your food while crying then paid for it, and there was no way you avoided weird looks from the people around you. Telling one of his employees to let him know about your leave, you get out of the place with a tear-stained face.

Public crying’s never felt so humiliating, and yet you let the tears continue to fall on the ground as if they were rain.

A picture’s drawn inside your head; one where there’s Shinsuke and her, and it’s a happy one for them. There’s that same smile he’s only ever shown you, a hand on hers, and a look that says 'Thank you’. Everything he was treating her was different to you, and it doesn’t help at all to lighten your burdens and relieve the pain.

The look on his face was so much more different when he looked at you. Just thinking about it was enough to send shivers running through you, and it feels like you’re being sliced into two. Suddenly, there’s nothing but the worst memories of him in your head. Nothing good and worth to remember comes to mind even if you tried to think of one, and the desire to go home grows stronger.

In the office, it was loud and quiet, but you figure that if something’s loud, it isn’t quiet anymore. Desperate for home and getting out of the plain, busy, grayscale environment that didn’t seem to care about you and was apathetic.

Luckily, at least a single co-worker of yours had a little bit of humanity in them and volunteered to help you finish your work. And as much as you wanted and at the same time didn’t, you’re caught up between another yes or no question.

Before another syllable leaves your lips, there’s a stack or two less of work already and only a few more papers to get through with.

'I should tell Osamu I want to work with her,’ with a smile, you think.

Memories of your mother appear in your mind, the ones where she’d tell you so much about being a good person and help others. It was cliché and it annoyed you as a kid with the never-ending scolding and reminders, but like most parents, she only wanted what was best for you and the best version of you.

When there’s less papers to skim and scan through, you’re reminded of the kindness and generosity that people had, even if it wasn’t evident and most hid it. There was beauty in the small act of kindness, and whoever gave humans compassion for the gift you’re blessed with was given your respect and gratitude.

Even with the tears, a chuckle comes out from time to time with your lips curved upwards. Had there been more people in the room sitting close to you, they would have confronted you about being annoying or think you needed to go to a hospital. Although it doesn’t get rid of your worries, it deceives you into thinking that there’s nothing there but you’re thankful for it. With how much tired you were from just getting a single second of thinking of the voices in your head, lies and distractions were enough for you if it meant getting a break.

At that moment, thinking about the sympathy someone had for you despite not being close with them at all, you’re struck with realization.

—

The gray-haired boy hums at the sight of you, and it takes him a second to get a gist of how you were feeling with just a glance. Turning to the narrow eyed who was glued to his phone as if to ask for unnecessary permission, the other only shrugs as a reply but he takes this as an agreement.

“Ya don’t look so good,” he whispers, taking a seat on the free space next to you and grabs his own bottle to get rid of the itchiness and dryness in his throat.

Afraid of being judged and nothing to reply since he was right, you keep quiet and before he gets to ask what was wrong, he gets called to practice. He doesn’t smile at you, but there’s a reassuring look on his face telling you that he’s fine with listening if you were okay with telling.

(You break down during practice for multiple reasons and one of them was the assurance that he gives you and you’re sent to your dorm.)

(Him, his brother and the narrow-eyed friend visit you later on to tease you, eat with you, and listen to you.)

—

Work’s finished before you know it, and there’s a rush of adrenaline in your veins that’s causing you to want to hurry home to finally vent out all you want and heat up while eating something cold even during winter. Still, you chose to slow down and take all your time in the world and appreciate the same changes the world around you goes through every single day.

The sunsets still looked the same; apricot honey skies blending with the indigo and violets on the opposite side with wisps of baby blue clouds and the sun’s rays extending towards the horizon.

Despite the intense and vibrant oranges and yellows that fill the sky, all you’re reminded of was him and how much you’ve tried to connect the dots with him and sunsets, and the longing grows.

Beauty fades, so before the skies drift and change again, you capture the moment in your phone for it to last a little longer than it should and be able to be looked back upon.

'Do you still think of me when the sun sets?’ You ask yourself and him as if he could read your mind even from afar. ‘Did you ever think of me when the sun sets?’

Even with your eyes closed, it wasn’t so dark and there’s a tinge of oranges and lemons from the sky and the sun. The white, blue, and gray swirls swim in the skies, dissipating slowly until there’s nothing but clear amber, marigold, and indigo above you.

'Why was it you?’ Stopping in your tracks, you ask.

Despite being the one who asked the question, it didn’t make much sense. Standing there and pondering the answer was going to take too much time, so it’s not long before your shoes were clicking against the cemented floors, making their way to the nearest bus stop, the same one you take every afternoon to go back home. It wasn’t crowded, just the way you liked it and made you choose to take this ride home from the start.

Too fixated on the question, your brows were already knitted together and what others thought was frustration was somewhat close.

‘Do you still love me?’

The bus seat was cold and the back of your body and under your legs feel were tingling as though it was ice on your skin and thousands of ants in your muscles but the heater close by soothed the cold bites on you.

With your phone barely giving you any entertainment and halfway from shutting down, you click on its power button and slide it into your bag. Buzzes resonate in your head and the vibrations from the moving vehicle irritate you, but you’ve lost the energy to get mad at the small things and try not to let it get to you.

December’s just began and the snow’s only started falling recently, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting spring or summer to come and warm you up.

There’s frost on the corners of the windows on the outside looking like sparkling white and silver leaves and imitating waters. The outside view’s indistinct and fuzzy, and you could only make up little blobs and shapes of different shades.

The heater’s warmth doesn’t reach your face and hands, leaving them feeling a little numb. You were definitely going to put hand warmers in your bag the time you get home so you don’t have to forget it again the day after. For now, you press your hands together even if both were freezing cold.

“Rub it together and cup your face,” a gentle voice says, and you nod as a reply. When you do as you’re told, it doesn’t do much but it makes you feel a little warmer than before.

About to thank the owner of the voice, you look over to your right and find your mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and dull in an instant. When you finally thought you were done dealing with your problems for the day, another one shows up right before you. Although you couldn’t exactly call her a problem, but the cause of it all.

There’s a sorry look on her face and it was obvious that there was an apology waiting to be said and hopefully accepted.

”Is it okay if I sit here?” she asks, pointing to the vacant seat on your side.

There’s not a way you can think of to reject her without offending her nor could you let her do as she wants and sit right next to you. Even if she’d started the mess and you wanted to do anything to get back at her, guilt’s pulling your heartstrings and telling you not to do anything even if there weren’t consequences waiting for you.

She takes your silence as a “no”, and whispers a sorry before sitting on the other side of the bus.

Suspense fills the air, and you feel as though you’re back to the night before everything turned to this. Your breaths become uneven and your throat and mouth run dry. Still, there was an urge to yell no matter how croaky or how much your voice cracked.

All you wanted was to voice out your concerns and empty your cup that was overflowing from all the pent-up frustration and sorrow that you didn’t have the guts to tell or show Osamu.

It grows dark when the bus when it passes behind the tall buildings, blocking the light from entering. The only light source was the ones in the bus and one of them even blinking. It would probably be fixed later on, as it doesn’t take them long to fix these.

The scent of mint hangs in the air and when breathed in, it stings and feels like its burning your lungs as if the pain of being here with the person you once trusted the most was not enough.

With gritted teeth, your hands were shaking both from the cold and the urge to cry, nails poking into the skin, digging dipper as your grip grew tighter around each other.

“I’m sorry.”

You hold your breath.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Exhale.

“He didn’t either.”

Inhale.

“I’m…”

Exhale.

“We’re sorry.”

When cold air hits your face, it’s as though you’re bare and discarded your clothes, bathing in the snow. Something’s telling you to shut up and cry, but tired of getting told what to do and wanting to finally take matters in your own hands because you knew there was no end to it if you continued to avoid it and hand your problems to others, even if your voice cracked. It’s a cat and mice chase.

“What do you… you seriously,” trails of words from whole sentences, possibly paragraphs, leave your mouth, disappointment evident in the tone.

“Are you kidding?” Glossy eyes shine and look at hers, and there was a hint of discontentment and disgust in them.

“I… you really… unbelievable,” with a shaking voice and guilt suddenly striking you from the shame and humility she shows, you look away from her, lean forward, and press your head against the soft cushion of the seat.

And just like eight months ago, your lungs don’t function as they should and your breaths become uncoordinated. It feels as if there was a collar wrapped tightly around your neck and keeping you from inhaling or exhaling air. Your hands scratch your neck from the dryness in your throat and try to remove the non-existent collar in hopes to still see what’s in store for you tomorrow and at least feel the warmth of your home.

—

“Hey, hey, hey, look at me. Look at me.”

Large hands place themselves on your shoulder and you could only shake your head and bury your face in your hands, not wanting to show him your dripping wet face nor feel the shame. So instead, he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, cradling you.

“Breathe.“

—

When there’s light again, your chest and shoulders feel lighter, your neck finally free from the pressure. Out of breath and energy, your arms fall to your sides and wrap themselves around your torso weakly, tears falling onto the floor and forming little puddles that shone on the matte floor.

Her hands hang in the air, wanting to reach out to you but they keep their distance from you.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” you cry out, careless of whoever could hear you. There’s a ringing in your ear muting out everything that was surrounding you except for your own voices.

As the pace began to slow down, it soon came to a halt, and tells you to get down for your stop.

There’s enough time for you to collect yourself, and she stays in her seat while you make your way to the door. A voice tempts you to look back, but just as you were about to, your feet were already stepping on the concrete pavement, standing a few blocks away from home.

The phone shakes a few times in your bag, but with how thick the fabric of the trench coat you’re wearing, you don’t feel it and it’s left unread until you finally fish it out the second you’re back inside home.

The sender sees the ‘read’ under his text and the time you read it, just a few minutes after he sent it.

“She’s not answering,” Shinsuke tells Osamu. “Are ya sure about this?”

“She’s missin’ ya lots, Kita-san,” the other behind the counter answers while preparing the onigiri Shinsuke’s ordered. “It’s obvious. Just give ‘er some time and… and she’ll warm up to ya like she always does.”

Osamu’s own words sting himself, but he keeps a straight face like he always did every other time when you talk to one another at ungodly hours of the night, hairs a mess, the sheets and sleeves of clothes soaked and wet from tears, while the aroma of whatever he’s cooked eases and diverts your attention from the ache in your chest. From the eight months he’s spent with you, Osamu knows that you’re staring at the text sent to you, unable to ignore it. He feels sorry and promises to apologize when everything was over and if it was still needed. But he knows to himself that he would still apologize, even if everything turned out well. Apologize to himself.

Osamu was great at hiding his own emotions, but that doesn’t mean Shinsuke doesn’t notice it. Afterall, he’s known Osamu for half his life already and there’s so much he’s found out as the former captain of their high school’s volleyball club and as another friend to Osamu.

Kita wasn’t one to be possessive, but at that moment, he couldn’t help but feel bothered about the other. Although at the same time, a heavy burden settles in him.

At the receiver end of the text, the messages were left on read and somewhere far from the kitchen where you were busy making dinner for yourself and possibly your roommate if he ever comes home early and hungry, which was always the case with him.

The pungent spicy scent of thymes fills the air, and there’s sizzling on the pan, the meat growing tender and brown, absorbing the different flavors of the herbs and sauce mixed together.

The image of someone who raised you appears in your mind, and home feels even more like it when you close your eyes and reminisce. ‘It wasn’t a waste of time’, you think, remembering how much they had taught you about cooking even though it was baking that you favored.

Soon, the soft tapping of impatient feet resonates in the walls, and not long after that, your mind’s clouded with thoughts of your phone in another room, the messages, and the sender.

’Am I okay? Is this okay?’ you ask yourself, staring at the cooked meat in front of you. After thinking for minutes, there’s a strong burning smell that goes around the room, and only then do you stop thinking of the questions after seeing one side the meat a little dark and burnt than the other.

It’s probably going to taste bitter, you think, squinting your eyes and inhaling the mixed smells of half-burnt meat and different herbs. Despite that, you’re rest assured that Osamu was still going to eat it. The man never wastes the food he’s given, although you were sure going to get an earful. He’s a little too harsh at times, but you couldn’t argue with him since this was his passion, and he’s more than passionate about it unlike when he played for the school team, even if he reached the national level.

“Is something burning?” is what you first hear from the man, and there was no point in trying to escape his scolding with the evidence in front of you and scent around the room. His sense of smelling had always been sharp along with his taste, and it’s weird and yet amazing that he could distinguish the different brands of chicken with a blindfold on.

“Distracted again, aren’t ya?” He sighs, thinking that you were on your phone like always. But he understands that you were on it now, remembering how Kita’s sent you the message. The tone of his voice didn’t sound anywhere near mad nor disappointed, but rather empathetic. Still, it scared you even more the kinder he sounded. He could be relaxing one moment, and then scolding you the next.

You only hum out a response, and start setting up the table while he goes to the bathroom and the bedroom to change.

Osamu changes his mind when he sees your phone charging at the corner of the room. He didn’t really care nor was he the nosy type, but he only finds himself holding it in his hand, looking at the empty lock screen. There’s no notification on it. Perhaps you cleared it already like you always do, bothered every time there’s irrelevant tabs and notifications on your phone.

The soft call of his name makes him put down the phone and go to the kitchen where you were, sitting and waiting for him, a bored look on your face.

It’s quiet when you both start to eat, but it feels unusual for you and him.

‘Isn’t he going to tell me off?’´ you ask.

‘Did she really not get the text? She should have told me about it now,’ Osamu thinks.

“Osamu.”

“Y/n.”

Blinking a few times, you swallow the lump in your throat as he insists that you go ahead.

“Are you not going to nag at me for burning the meat?”

Osamu tilts his head, not expecting the question. He begs your pardon and asks you to say it again, and when you do, he’s shoving another spoonful of the food in his mouth. ‘Maybe she doesn’t wanna talk about it,’ he tells himself.

“D’ya want me to? I thought you were tired of it,” he tells you honestly, although that was only a part of the whole truth. As a reply, you eat another piece of meat and shake your head. He was right though; you didn’t want him to nag at you anymore. It felt as though you were only a child in his eyes, but you couldn’t really blame him for it, knowing how much you’ve been childish since everything started.

Clearing your throat, you ask, “What about you? What were you going to tell me?”

Reminded of what he said, he takes a sip of the water to stall. The clock sounds louder from you two keeping quiet, and it keeps on ticking. It alone gives you pressure and gets your blood running, feeling as if it was counting down the time left before something happens or was said. The longer the silence stays, the faster it counts down.

To Osamu though, he takes his time and remains calm, his heart beating along with the ticking. It’s steady and relaxed, unlike you on the other side of the table.

You figure he’s made a choice and found the words to say when he lets out a deep sigh and leans back onto the chair, stretching out for a while and you get a glimpse of his muscles flexing. It doesn’t make your heart pound against your chest or have your blood and warmth settle in your cheeks. You’ve seen other things.

“Did you get any text?” Osamu asks, his voice low and almost a whisper. If by chance, you get upset—angry—at him, he’ll just apologize and wait until you’ve forgiven him. But that wasn’t the case.

“I did,” your honest answer sounding a little upset but calm more than ever. There’s not a crack in your voice nor tears welling up and threatening to fall from your eyes, and it relieves him. “And I don’t know whether to go or not.”

“You don’t have to,” concern clear in the tone of his voice, and he says it like he’s apologizing before he’s even heard anymore from you.

“I know but,” you pause when you say ‘but’, realizing there’s nothing for you left to say except for the truth. You feel your stomach turn and your organs disarrange themselves while you get ready to tell him what you really wanted, and maybe, needed.

“I just want to see him,” the words fall out of your mouth heavily, and there’s an ick at the tone of your voice. The words you tell him were half honest, unlike his. Weight gets placed on your shoulders and feet that makes you feel exhausted and eager to go to sleep.

“A half-truth is a whole lie,” you recall your professor telling you once. It doesn’t make the heaviness on your body disappear. Had not there been food on the table you’d slump over and rest your head against the cold surface.

‘I miss him, ´ is what you truly want to say, but there’s no need to say it out loud. Osamu knows it more than ever with how many times you’ve cluelessly hinted out. The way he looks at you tells you that it was okay and that you’ll be okay, and that’s what makes the weight go away.

For the rest of the night, he washes the dishes and you go to bed first. Neither of you talk anymore about it, already knowing what was going to happen soon.

Relief spreads throughout you, but a small part of yourself can’t help but be troubled and tensed about the choice you made. Something feels wrong, and yet it all feels right.

Time has never passed by so rapidly. Like a river, it starts off fast and rushing, and as it flows towards the sea and reaches the end, it takes its time and get a feel of every nook and crevice in the stone ground, taking note of the tiniest details.

It seems to be a gloomier day than a lively one, the skies filled with gray clouds and there’s not the slightest bit of space for the sun to shine or get a peek of the blue. Even though you’ve forgotten (intentionally didn’t want) to watch the weather forecast and too lazy to look it up, an umbrella sits at the bottom of your bag in case you’re greeted with a downpour later on.

The clouds don’t drift away as if showing you their pity, and you hated it. If there was anything you needed and wanted, it was anything but pity. Like someone in a maze, you feel lost and lonely, and there’s a part of you that finds it nice. It feels as if your mind’s playing tricks on you, and as much as the lies divert your attention from the hammering somewhere inside you, it’s best to accept the truth that the loneliness you feel isn’t nice at all.

Even if you stood somewhere you always go to every single day, it feels a little unfamiliar.

“Good afternoon,” someone to your right greets you, and one second passes, to thirty, to a whole minute, and when three passes, only then do you look at him.

His front bangs that used to be gathered into an inverted triangle were now cropped in a straight yet raggedy line across his forehead, the dark tips grazing over his brows. When you look in his eyes, you feel stupid that you always thought they looked golden or hot chocolate because all it looks like now is the earth. Still, he looked pretty.

‘He’s changed,’ a voice in your head tells you, and you’re a lot more grateful than you think. He does look different from what he was before. Maybe because if he didn’t, the ground would be wet, not from the rain but from tears, and there wouldn’t be any self-control left for you to keep your feet steady and firm on the ground.

The skies and everything behind him seemed to suddenly turn into black, white and gray like him, and you wonder if it was just you and his impact on you or it had always been like that. Maybe it was both, but it was more on the fact that you quit focusing on your surroundings when he called your attention.

“The same goes,” is what you reply. It wasn’t exactly a good afternoon like he said with everything that’s around happening. Good to him meant the little things, and it did for you too. But you can’t help but feel a little sullen with how lifeless the world looks, the colors drained from every single crack and surface ever since today.

Again, you feel sorry for the you from years before for thinking that he always seemed lively in your eyes. But there was no guarantee that he would still appear as lively as he did from the way you look at him compared to the way others did, so you try to not think about it. It was either you being a little too besotted with him from your younger days or you being too sulky now that’s there are glass walls between you two.

It’s like a sheet has been peeled off of him. A filter that’s worn off and shows people’s true colors.

Still, you don’t despise him with the filter off. Whether he had it on or not, he was always truthful. Or at least most of the time.

Without anything else to say and saving up the words for later on to be able to have a conversation that keeps on running and no awkward silences, you both enter the restaurant. The banners outside flew upwards a little, as if to tell you two that you were both going to be soaked and wet later on if you stayed a minute more outside.

The aroma of beef hangs in the air, and the walls and floor were painted monochromatic beige. The same shades as the rooms back at home. Tatami was the flooring and it felt soft but firm beneath your feet. Paper lanterns hung from the ceilings, some plain white while others were close to scarlet or a bold orange like the salt lamps that used to sit at the corners of the room when you still lived with him. Some cushions that sat comfortably on the floor were a deep forest green, while others a rich red that complimented the floor nicely. Plain banners were stuck to the walls. Some of the walls were shoji screens, a thick translucent paper stretched out onto wooden lattice.

Everything inside was traditional, which was very likely of Kita.

Lots have changed and more stayed the same in him in eight months and a half.

He offers you to sit like he always did, then sits across you. It doesn’t take you two long to order, already knowing what you both wanted. Afterall, you both have gone here hundreds of times already.

Time flows like a river, and it flowed a little slower now that it was in the middle.

“You look great,” he starts, smiling at you like it was his first time in eight months and twenty-seven if the months before you both grew apart were counted.

He smiles at you as if you both were still the same high schoolers from nine years ago. Had he smiled at you like this from months before, you could say that you still were the same, but time and events taught and made you go through torture and relief.

“You look like you’re at your best,” you managed to breathe out, the corners of your lips not going too far upward. But you don’t look at him, and instead your eyes were on your hands intertwined and finding warmth in each other.

‘It’s still cold,’ you think, and it wasn’t a lie, nor was it a truth. It was only a statement now, and you were content with what it was. It was for the best if you wanted to keep your sanity and not be an emotional wreck, which you’ve probably lost and failed to do already moments ago.

“I still am worried about you,” he tells you in a tone that isn’t trying to prove you anything. It was as if this was just another casual conversation like every other day where nothing’s happened. But to you, his words start to snip little by little at you.

You don’t know whether to be glad about his word choice, most especially with ‘about you’. Shinsuke was one to think things thoroughly, and trying to make up a lie that says that he’s just throwing out the first words in his mind was completely unbelievable. If you wanted to make a lie, then there should at least be a little bit of truth, but it was impossible since all of it was already true.

“You don’t have to. I’m okay,” but half of you wasn’t. It was like two completely different souls lived within you, opinions always contradicting each other up until you’re stuck in an abyss of thoughts and feelings.

“I know you are. And you are, but you’re also not, aren’t ya?” it sounds like a joke to every other person, especially with the soft chuckle that comes along with it, but both of you know it’s the truth.

“You’ve always been the kind of person that’s stuck between two things. And it’s nice that you are.

“It makes the decision you make… more meaningful for yourself and others.

“It just means you think things thoroughly.”

You swallow, and look at him again, smiling a sincere smile. It was no wonder he greeted you a good afternoon.

“You know, I should’ve just made you answer all those job interviews from before,” a tender laugh escapes you, and like the first time, Kita’s eyes soften at you. “You know me better than I know myself, and it’s unfair both for you and me.”

“It’s not that you don’t know yourself. It’s just hard for you to put yourself into words.”

“See? You’re better at it than I am!” Kita feels his heart rate relax, and there’s nothing but adoration in his eyes when you finally give into the smile and laugh you’ve been keeping in. It feels refreshing.

“Well, you are Kita Shinsuke. You’re great at everything,” calming down, you hydrate yourself with the glass of water. “Even if you’re not, you’re still far from bad or worse.”

“I’m bad at a lot of things. I just don’t get to do it because I am,” he chuckles.

“I’d say ‘quit lying’ but you never do. So, I’ll just take that,” the grin on your face was genuine, and Kita feels relieved.

The warm and cozy atmosphere that takes over the restaurant feels a lot more homely, and the dark and glum skies outside were long forgotten.

‘I missed this,’ you tell yourself because you did miss this, and so did Shinsuke.

Even though the food was salty, there’s a sweetness on your tongue that you couldn’t figure out where it came from, but it was there. It was probably just you hallucinating, but it felt real. It didn’t feel weird nor out of place, so you let it stay. It wasn’t like you could ever get rid of it.

Despite being in a restaurant, it felt like you were at home. This was what you’ve been longing for from the start. Although you had told yourself millions of times to quit being cliché and sappy, you can’t help but say that this was the home you’ve been searching for before.

It was the welcoming warmth you feel even when you’re new; the warm soup that greets you first thing in the morning when you’re sick; the reminders to take care of yourself when you take a step too far from what you promised; the times when he volunteers to take out the trash instead of you; the days and nights where you don’t let fights go unsolved and left to fix for another day.

Silence rests over you two, and he takes this chance to fill it in with what he and you first came here for.

An explanation and apology.

It hurts you when you hear the truth, but there’s nothing welling up in your eyes. Your breath hitched from time to time, but even without words, he reminds you to breath just like he reminds you to drink the cup of water on your desk.

His features distort when they see the way your hand tightens at the glass of water you hold. His joints twinge and his bones drag on each other and he hears it screeching in his head. His chest aches, and it’s the worst it’s ever been. Even a smile at him wouldn’t get rid of it, and neither do the words you tell him.

He knows you’re hurt, and you know he is too.

At this point, you both exchange glances and it hurts even more when his eyes cross yours.

“Excuse me,” you say and go to the restroom, and the minutes felt like hours.

The sink was going to crack if you hadn’t loosened your grip, and there’s nothing you want to do but go home. So, you call Osamu.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s…”

It doesn’t feel right when you think of saying ‘fine’, so you answer an honest answer.

“It’ll take me a while.”

“I understand. Please do take your time.”

‘This is it,’ Shinsuke thinks when he sees another smile crack on your face. It, meaning what he’s been longing to see.

No matter how slow the body of water drifts, there’s no stopping it from ending.

Clean, empty bowls lie on the table, and it’s not long before you both were back outside.

This time, the skies look different. The grays are gone, and instead it’s filled with marmalade and lemony hues, and it feels nice. Shinsuke thinks it’s a coincidence. Everything’s brought back to life when Osamu stands close by unlike when he first arrived.

‘It’s innocent and pure,’ Shinsuke describes, the way you look at him and when he calls your name.

‘It’s true and sincere,’ Shinsuke describes, the way you look at Osamu and your reaction when the latter calls you.

“This is it,” he’s brought back to his senses when you speak, and there’s nothing he can do but nod and agree.

And this time, for both of you, it means farewell. The closure.

“I hope to see you again, still in good health,” you say, trying to fill in the void.

“The same goes for you,” Shinsuke tells you, returning your words. And like you, he says it because he doesn’t feel the good in this.

This time, Shinsuke takes note of the changes in you instead of what’s stayed the same, and he thinks that what he’s doing is right, because it really was.

When you nod your head and turn around, every step you took felt like another kilogram of weight on him. It doesn’t last long though. It was as simple as a heavy inhale and exhale of the air.

"Do you hate me?”

You turn back around when he calls you. When you face him, you realize you’re not gone so far yet and have only taken two steps away.

“I thought I could,” you say with a smile, one that you use every time you tell the truth and feel foolish.

"Do you regret 'us’?”

“We’ve had our good moments, didn’t we?” your head tilts as you answer, and he’s run out of questions.

“How about you? Do you regret 'us’?”

‘Us’ you say, because there was no denying that ‘you and I’ was once ‘us’.

“I only regret choosing to end it this way. everything could have ended so much more… peacefully.“

"But chaos is inescapable, and it’ll always be chasing us.”

"But we can always choose to hide from it every once in a while, can’t we,” he responds, feeling at ease.

Clouds form in the sky, and a cold breeze rushes past you, and you shiver.

“May I?” politely, pointing at the crimson scarf in your bag. There was no need to answer when you hand it over to him.

‘Smells like berries,’ he thinks.

He wraps it around you for the two hundred, thirtieth time, which was also the last time he’d ever get to do.

Time feels like it’s even slower when it’s by the mouth of the sea, or perhaps he just wanted to drag the moment a little longer.

You feel as if someone’s put heavy weights on your feet as you dragged yourself away, but when Osamu greets you with a smile and a kiss on your temple instead of a ruffling of your hair, they disappear.

In that moment, the baggage is gone, and forever will be now that you’ve both accepted this.

For today, you choose to be decisive.

You choose to let go and accept everything.

Kita Shinsuke stays behind you.

Miya Osamu walks with you.

[cabinofimagines]

In the end, cleaning wins.

Percy x gn!reader

Summary: Percy and Y/n are trying their best to be adults. Between work, school, being a demigod, and keeping up the apartment, something or someone was bound to snap.

A/N: Bro I’m always so bad at writing fight scenes since I’m such a peacekeeper lmao. I try to avoid conflict often so rip if this isn’t good.

-Day

_______________________________________

Being an adult is exhausting. 

No seriously, it is. Percy hadn’t slept in over 26 hours at the fault of his new job at the aquarium. It held unusually odd hours, the only upside being a nice pay and working with sea creatures. He loved it, but the position and people he had to work with were obnoxious in many ways.

He stayed up all night trying to cram for a chem exam coming up, but he would’ve slept an hour at least if he’d known the bullshit coming his way. He left home yesterday morning for his bio lecture where he zoned out for 2 out of the 3 hours. Unfortunately, homework was assigned based on the day’s lecture. Amazing. Then, he was called into work directly after because the opening manager flaked out. Also amazing.

The school was across town from the aquarium so he figured he could catch some sleep on the subway, but before he even boarded, a group of dracaena ambushed him. He took off running, hoping that maybe he could lose them instead of having to fight. If he fought in this sluggish state then he’d probably screw up and shish kebab himself.

 He could probably just run to the aquarium from here, take a few back alleys and shake off the slithering psychos. He turned to check if they were still following and to his surprise, they were right on his heels. Pretty fast for creatures with no legs. Or would having the ability to just… glide be faster? Like being on skateboard?

Now really wasn’t the time to be thinking of dracaena with skateboard bodies.

He turned sharply and took the fire escape three steps at a time. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he was fairly certain that in the prospect of jumping buildings, the person with legs had the upper hand. He could hear the dracaena hissing out things like “get back here, sssson of the sssssea god” or “come here, child”. How the Hades are they still behind him?

He saw the edge of the building approaching and realized that maybe it was a little too far of a jump. But he was already flying over the gap and praying that his ankles don’t snap like twigs when he lands. 

Luckily, he made it. He hit the ledge with his chest, his arms pulling him up. He scrambled to his feet, ready to turn and fight if that jump didn’t shake them. Turns out that it did work, because he’d the pleasure of seeing the failed attempt of the hissing heathers falling one by one into the gap between the buildings. He heard them yelp out curses on the way down, but wasn’t sure if they combusted into dust or not. 

He decided to roof hop for most of the way to work, one because it was a little faster this way and because he had less of a chance to run into bored monsters. Man, he was glad that he didn’t have a manager to answer to this time, they’d probably just be glad he showed up.

---

Percy prided himself on being a pretty chill person both at work and on the regular. However, there wasn’t a day that passed where he wondered if he should just hop in one of the tanks and pretend to be a fish. The sea otters seem pretty stress-free.

He was exhausted and running on energy drinks he’d bought from the gas station a little ways from work. What was supposed to be a 6-hour shift on his one day off turned into him working from 11:30 am to midnight after the evening manager decided to leave early. Percy was never one to complain when others went home before him, in fact, he usually chooses to go last unless he has homework due at 11:59. But when Cooper decided Percy could handle closing the aquarium by himself, he lost it. 

He took the last bus home, thankfully, his trip home was quieter than his trip to work. He sat in the back, head tilted toward the window as he tried to calm the headache that tortured him. He was pretty sure that Y/n would be asleep by now, they had an early morning and he didn’t expect them to wait up for him… but tonight, he really hoped they did.

The promise that Y/n would be there, asleep or not, was comforting enough to him. He wanted nothing more than wordless cuddles and a deep sleep right now. 

----

Walking through the building door he noticed the hall light was off– correction, it was blown. No biggie, Percy had found his way in the dark multiple times, but the stairs seemed to be a different story. He tried so hard to be quiet on the way upstairs, but he managed to trip over the ledge. He swore quietly, fumbling for the railing and hoping his neighbor was dead asleep.

Ronnie often threw fits over the amount of noise the couple made, even if it wasn’t much of a ruckus, Ronnie always claimed that his keen ears could hear everything. He still hadn’t forgiven Percy for the quip he made about maybe turning his hearing aids down, but he will. Hopefully.

Somehow he made it to the apartment door in one piece fumbling for his keys and unlocking the door. He took note of the darkened place and figured that maybe Y/n really did go to bed. It’s alright, Percy was ready to crash and catch a few hours of sleep.

But the lamp was on in their bedroom and the door was cracked open still, so… are you up?

Percy kicked off his shoes and dropped his book bag by the door, trudging over to the bedroom and nudging the door open. Sitting upright in the bed sat Y/n reading a book he’d bought for your birthday. Percy smiled, you looked so cute bundled up in his old uni t-shirt. 

Your eyes shifted to him, crinkling with happiness, “You’re back?” You didn’t move though, clearly comfortable under the heavy duvet. 

He nodded with a small smile, moving over to your side of the bed and placing a quick kiss on your forehead, “I’m gonna take a shower and grab something to eat, you go ahead and get some rest.”

After he turned to leave you heaved a sigh, not sure how to bring this up when he’s as tired as he is. Maybe this could wait until tomorrow? Then he’d be less tired and maybe… no, you already put this off long enough. He’ll be tired regardless of when it’s brought up, might as well get it over with.

So you sat there, not really even reading the words on the page anymore, your thoughts wandering from the universe the author had written about. It really shouldn’t have been this nerve-wracking. It’s a basic thing that needs to be done in every house and you were getting tired of doing it every single time.

Cabinets shutting brought your attention back to the present. Reluctantly, you pushed the duvet back and shuffled towards the kitchen, Percy eating a PB&J sandwich coming into view. He looked like a little kid, leaning against the counter in his black sweatpants and a graphic tee, munching on a small sandwich he made. You grinned and leaned beside him, ignoring the confused glances he gave.

“You miss me that much?” He joked, mouth full of food.

You snorted and looked down, something you tended to do when you got nervous. He seemed in a good mood despite whatever may had happened today, so it’s now or never.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” you mumbled, “And I know you’re tired but I feel like this is only going to get worse if we don’t talk about it now.”

Percy blinked and continued to eat, his silence a cue to continue. He didn’t really want to talk about anything right now, he just wanted to eat his sandwich and go to bed. But it seemed important so he figured he’d survive a little longer.

You studied your sock-clad feet closely, “I know we’re both really busy and it’s hard to find time for certain things like time with each other, time to study, or cleaning. But it’s something we have to find time for, y’know?”

Percy hummed, “I can ask off on Saturday if you want? We can spend the day together, we haven’t had a whole day in a while.”

You gave a small smile because while that is a concern, that’s not what you were talking about. You won’t say no though. You stole a glance at him, “I have missed being with you, I guess.”

“You guess?” Percy said a little louder, poking your stomach teasingly, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You chuckled, swatting his hand away, “Be quiet! Ronnie will be at our door in a second, you know that.” Just do it, he’s in a good mood! “I was actually talking about the cleaning…”

At that, Percy took a look around. The dishes weren’t overflowing and the laundry wasn’t piling up, it didn’t look like something needed to be addressed. He finished the last of his sandwich, “Okay? What needs to be done?”

“Well between the two of us there is hardly any time to do anything else right? Well, it feels like I’m the only one taking care of the place-”

“But I do take care of the place,” He interrupted, “I pay the bills and I pick up after myself so-”

“But you don’t.” You spoke exasperated, “You don’t always pick up after yourself. Look, you left the bread and the PB&J out!” A fight isn’t what you wanted so you tried to approach it a different way. You took a deep breath, “...I understand you’re busy, I am too. I just want you to make a conscious effort to put things away where they belong.”

He scoffed, a disbelieving smile on his face, “I’m not a kid anymore, Y/n. I know how to clean up after myself, my mom made sure of that.”

“Then why don’t you? You used to be really good about helping me out–”

“I’m exhausted Y/n, what do you want me to do?!” 

“Fucking help me, that’s what!”

It went quiet, staring the other down and wondering who would back down first. It was silly honestly, but you were tired of picking up the slack. The work in the apartment used to be equal but lately its looking a lot like you do 88% and Percy does 12%.

You relented, huffing and shaking your head, “Okay then.” You turned on your heel, going over to the front door and putting your shoes on along with a jacket. You needed to calm down, a little fresh air to maybe come up with a different way of approaching this. 

The convenience store across the road might still be open. You could grab one of those bottled iced coffees for tomorrow morning, maybe a small snack too. Hopefully the small errand would be long enough for you to think of another approach. Maybe one where Percy was less of an ass, or less tired, whichever one really.

Percy followed you around to the door, his crossed arms dropping to his sides when he noticed what you were doing. He furrowed his brows, “Where are you going? It’s past midnight.”

“I’m well aware of the time, Perseus.” You hissed, “I’m going out to grab a few things.”

He shook his head, his black hair still wet from the shower, “You can wait until morning for that, come on!” he spoke lowly as he approached you, “let’s just get some rest...”

You pulled from his reach and twisted the door knob open, walking out without another word. You closed it behind you and padded over to the stairs, hopping down the unlit steps like you normally did. 

Unluckily, your foot narrowly missed the next step and without the light to see where you could potentially catch yourself, you fell. Yep, you hit every step on the way down. If Ronnie hadn’t heard the argument you just had, he had to have heard your swears as your body fumbled down to the 1st floor.

Percy flung the door open, the light from your apartment lighting up the dark stairwell. His footsteps thundered down the stairs and there he sat in front of you, words flying out of his mouth so fast that you didn’t even know what he was saying. The fall caught you so off guard that you weren’t sure what was happening right now.

Ronnie threw his door open, profanities slipping out his mouth at the noise, “And this is why I never rent to young couples!” He shouted, but the threat of his words were tame without his dentures to help him spit it out. He turned his head to the bottom of the stairs where Percy leaned over your confused figure, fumbling over his words and oblivious to Ronnie.

“Well shit...” Ronnie muttered, backing back into his apartment quietly.

You snapped out of your daze, noticing how much your ankle actually hurt. Okay you’ve definitely dealt with worse, but the pain was still annoying. You started to push yourself off the steps and into a standing position, using the railing to steady yourself on your good foot.

Percy’s hands slid up your body, settling on your waist and attempting to help you back up the stairs. He kept his mouth shut on the way into the apartment, knowing that you’re probably even more irritated now.

Once you were sat comfortably on the couch, he rushed off to grab a bag of frozen peas to put on your ankle to stop the swelling. You did appreciate the thought, but you were not dealing with this any longer than you had to.

“Percy, there’s some ambrosia in my dresser, bottom drawer on the left.” 

He blinked and wandered off to the bedroom, shuffling through your stuff before muttering, “It’s not even in here.” He spent a couple of more minutes looking around for the Ziploc bag you had, but clearly wasn’t really looking.

You hauled yourself off the couch, chuckling and shaking your head at his antics. Hobbling into the room you saw that he was looking in the night stand, not the dresser like you told him to. No wonder he couldn’t find it. 

“Kelp head, I said the dresser not the night stand.” You laughed, limping over to the dresser and lcoating the bits of ambrosia. Percy was by your side in an instant, leading you back towards the bed and helping you situate yourself there comfortably. You said nothing as you opened the bag and nibbled on one of the pieces, a warm feeling washing over you.

You could feel the pain in your ankle easing off slowly and hopefully it would only be a little sore by morning. Percy took the bag from your hands and set it aside wordlessly, he muttered something about closing the front door before leaving the room.

You could tell he felt awkward about what just happened and he probably felt a little guilty about the argument you just had, even if it wasn’t all that serious. The two of you have had worse fights about worse things, but this is the first time in a while. It was bound to happen.

He came back in right as you shifted under the blankets, turning the light off and slipping underneath with you. He didn’t snuggle up to you right away, waiting to see if you were still pissed at him, but you didn’t make a move to kick him out the bed.

“I’m sorry for being such a dick, Y/n.” He whispered, “I didn’t know how much it bothered you and I’ll try to clean more often. I swear.” 

Nothing was said, for a moment, Percy thought you’d fallen asleep, but you turned slowly to face him, eyes scanning his face in the dim light from the window. You brought a hand up to his face and traced his jawline gently, “That’s all I wanted you to do, stupid.”

He huffed and inched closer to nuzzle your nose with his, “And all it took was a sprained ankle for me to figure that out.”

You laughed and knocked your forehead against his, “It’s my fault for being so deadset on grabbing coffee for tomorrow morning. I should’ve just gone to bed.”

“Do you want coffee now? I can go grab it–”

“No, I’m not getting up tomorrow. Go to sleep, fish brain.”

[riceballcatfb]

Made the Right Wish

Kyoru Week 2020, day 1 Rating: All ages  *Takes place post-manga, so read at your own risk!*

Title and story vaguely inspired by the verse below, which is the chorus of the song “What I’m Leaving For” by Lady A.

"Take a look at our little paradise

It ain't much, but baby you and I

picked the right star

made the right wish

there ain't nothing out there like this"

There were very few things that Kyo had truly been sure of in his life. In fact, he could only think of three things-he loved his son and unborn baby, he loved his wife, and he loved his job.

Well, four things.

This morning, as he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady thrum of the rain on the roof, he was 150 percent sure he wanted to stay home today.

It had been four years today since the curse had broken. He'd kept track, watching each anniversary pass by with bated breath, praying that it wouldn't somehow rear its ugly face within him again. Or worse, within his son.

He had to remind himself that it was also the four year anniversary of the day he'd knelt in front of Tohru outside the hospital, clinging to her hand and begging her to accept his love.

She'd said yes. So not all about this day was bittersweet.

And now, here they were, in their own house by the sea, with a tiny red-headed boy sleeping in the next room.

With the end of the curse, Kyo had been stripped of his connection to the cat spirit, of course. So there was absolutely no logical reason for him to still feel sluggish when it rained-not that being possessed by a cat was particularly logical, either, he supposed.

Next to him, he heard Tohru stir. He glanced in her direction. She was on her side facing him, eyes still shut, hair in disarray from sleep. "Are you okay?" she whispered, still not opening her eyes.

Their son had been difficult last night, not wanting to go to sleep. Kyo had tried to help, but Hajime was a huge Mommy's boy right now, and Tohru inevitably ended up taking the brunt of his tantrum. She was exhausted. Yet, she had heard the rain just now and woken up to check on Kyo anyway.

His heart swelled at the realization, both with love and a sense of guilt.

He inhaled deeply and rolled over to face her. He rubbed his thumb against her cheekbone. She smiled wearily in response.

"I'm fine," he murmured. "I should be asking you that. How'd you get him to finally lie down?"

Her eyes fluttered open. She put her hand over his, holding it in place against her cheek. "I told him that he could sleep with us tonight, since you won't have to get up early for work tomorrow."

Kyo chuckled. "Smart thinking."

"It worked immediately," Tohru replied, letting out an airy laugh.

"He's a cuddle bug. Just like his mom."

Tohru's eyes were closed again now, but she still answered him. "You're pretty cuddly, yourself," she pointed out.

"I guess. Sometimes."

She quirked an eyebrow in response, making it clear that she thought it was more than sometimes.

"It would be nice if I could stay home and help you today," he said softly, leaning over to kiss the tip of her nose. He stayed closeby afterwards, admiring how peaceful her face looked. Her thick eyelashes, the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the pastel pink of her lips. He was so lucky.

"You should stay home today. But not to help me, to rest. It's raining."

He scoffed slightly. "Yeah, right. I don't have time to rest. And besides…" he paused, running a finger along the slight swell of her stomach, "...you're the one who should be resting."

"What if you stayed home and we both rested?"

"Then Hajime would just run the house, and I don't think either of us would like the consequences of that very much."

"He's got to be tired, too," she reminded him. Not only had he been up late last night, but he also irrationally felt ill every time it rained. "Let's have a movie day."

"Wait...are you serious?"

She opened her eyes again, putting a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. "Yes. Why not?"

"Tohru, we need all the money we can get right now…"

She sighed and scooted closer, capturing his lips to silence him. "We're fine, Kyo-kun. You said you want to stay home. So stay home. You work hard for us."

Tohru wasn't working right then. Kyo had figured that watching a wild toddler and growing another little human added up to a full-time job. They were getting by on his income just fine, but Kyo wasn't sure if he'd ever honestly be able to stop worrying about money.

He sighed in defeat, pulling her into another kiss before answering. "Okay. You win. I'm making breakfast, though. What would you like?"

As Tohru opened her mouth--likely to protest his demand, Kyo thought--their mattress squeaked and drooped a little bit under a new weight. Tohru gasped in surprise as a little body wiggled its way between them.

Kyo ruffled their son's light red hair before giving him a kiss on the forehead. "Good morning, Hajime."

Hajime returned the sentiment by simply nuzzling his face against his father's chest. Just like Tohru had anticipated, he was groggy and likely not feeling well.

"Daddy's making breakfast today," Tohru told him, running her fingers through his messy hair. He batted her hand away and Tohru sighed at his grumpy mood, but also couldn't help but smile a bit at how he was clinging to Kyo. Hajime loved both his parents; there was no doubt about that. But with how attached he'd been to Tohru lately, moments like this where he only wanted Daddy had become more rare. Kyo smiled back at Tohru, knowing they were sharing the same thought.

"...Pancakes?" Hajime mumbled after a moment, tone muffled by Kyo's chest. Kyo nodded.

"Definitely. With chocolate chips?"

Hajime nodded, and Kyo got out of bed, scooping the toddler up with him. He propped Hajime up on his shoulders and headed out to the kitchen. Tohru sat up, shaking her head, dreading the impending sugar crash they'd have to deal with later.

She sat at the table in their living room, watching her boys make pancakes together. Well, really, Kyo made the pancakes and Hajime contributed by pouring the chocolate chips in. Moments like this were precious to her, and she knew they were to Kyo, too. Hajime likely wouldn't remember this exact point in time when he got older. But Tohru knew the small things like this would stay ingrained in her and Kyo's hearts forever. And soon they'd have another little boy to add in.

Pancakes were served at the table, where Tohru thanked her chefs with kisses on the cheeks. Hajime watched with wide eyes and a mouthful of food as Kyo turned on the TV and flipped through channels, looking for a movie they could all watch-the TV wasn't turned on much in their house. Kyo still didn't have much of a liking for movies, Tohru was just always too busy to really sit down and engross herself in a show, and Hajime spent too much time playing to really pay attention to anything happening on the mysterious screen.

When he got to a cartoon that made Hajime laugh, Kyo chuckled and set the remote down, pulling his son into his lap.

"Hang on!" Tohru said, springing up from her spot on the floor.

"Tohru," Kyo groaned. "Careful, please."

"I'm fine, Kyo-kun!" she insisted, already down the hall. A minute later, she returned with her arms full of pillows and throw blankets. Soon the little family was bundled up, Hajime in the middle, wrapped in so many blankets that Kyo told him he looked like a "Hajime burrito."

By the time the movie was over, Kyo's mind had been numbed by the shallow content, and he blinked a few times before looking over at Tohru. She was making an equally displeased face.

"That wasn't very well-written, was it?" she commented after a minute.

"Well, it's meant for kids his age," Kyo pointed out, looking down at their toddler. He sighed and laughed lowly when he noticed the boy's slow, even breathing and closed eyes. "And he wasn't even watching. When did he fall asleep?"

Tohru giggled, clamping a hand over her mouth to avoid disturbing Hajime. "I don't know."

Kyo leaned his head back against the wall behind him, letting his eyes flutter shut, as well. He'd kept himself going for this long, but the drowsiness the rain impeded him with was finally catching up with him. He sighed contentedly as Tohru ran her fingers through his hair, opening his eyes half-way to look over at her.

"I love you," he reminded her.

"I love you more."

He shook his head at that, but didn't really have the energy to get into a fake-argument about it like they did to mess with each other sometimes.

Tohru smiled in return before she spoke again. "I know you hate it when I have to go to the doctor by myself…"

Kyo sighed again, this time out of disappointment. "I should have taken yesterday off instead of today. Then I could have gone with you."

Tohru shook her head at his obvious bitterness. "The point of me bringing this up was, I found out what we're having."

Kyo's eyes opened fully as he looked over at his wife in surprise.

"I was trying to think of a fun way to tell you, but...I guess now's as good a time as any. It's another boy."

Kyo started crying almost immediately, unable to stop tears from sliding quietly down his cheeks. "I knew it," he whispered, wiping at his face. Tohru laughed. He had been insisting it was a boy for the entire pregnancy. Stubbornly, Tohru had always said it was a girl, though she really had no inkling one way or the other.

"You were right," she whispered back. "We need to start thinking of names."

Kyo nodded, sniffled a little, and leaned over to kiss her.

"Thank you for giving me a family. I love you."

"I love you, too. Now stop it, or you'll make me cry, too."

He chuckled and hugged Hajime a little closer. "I used to think that I used up all the luck in the universe when you started dating me. And then again when I proposed and you said yes. And then again, when Hajime was born. I don't know where the hell I'm getting enough luck to have another son."

Tohru wiped at her own now-wet cheeks, then reached over and smacked Kyo on the arm in playful protest. "Look what you did!"

He laughed and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

"Kyo-kun...you deserve this. All of it." She trailed her touch down to his left wrist, fingers tracing the spot where his prayer beads used to sit. The beads that were now in a drawer of their dresser, waiting until Hajime was old enough to hear the story and understand the significance of it.

Kyo shook his head slightly, but didn't argue.

"Well...I could never wish for anything more."

"Didn't we say we wanted one more baby after this one?" Tohru teased.

His eyes went wide. "Well, um...d-did we say that?"

She giggled. "We don't have to discuss it yet."

Kyo sighed in relief, shaking his head at his wife.

"You dork."

"I know what you mean, though. I don't think I could ever wish for anything more, either."

Kyo nodded and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Hajime's forehead and one to Tohru's belly. "We've made the right wishes. I mean, look where they got us."

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852407

@kyoruweekofficial

[sweetest-honeybee]

To Hell and Back

Chapter 29

Summary: Wels has a bit of a...discussion...with The Lord of Darkness

Characters: Wels, The Lord of Darkness (Hels, Ex, Xisuma, Tango, Doc, Keralis, Beef mention)

TW: Wels gets attacked so uh there’s that I suppose but nothing overly descriptive or gorey

——————

Wels didn’t know where he was. He was floating in darkness, nothing around him, nobody there. Everything was deafeningly silent.

You’re one of my best soldiers, Wels.

He turned to look around, finding nobody.

Why do you want to run?

He turned again, eyes landing on something in the distance. Tall, had red eyes of some kind, and weirdly enough, whatever shadows the creature was made of, they still stood out on the Void where he was. It was painfully obvious that sea shanties weren’t getting this to quiet down. He opened his mouth anyways, finding that no sounds came out of it.

Weird.

Wels didn’t panic, not yet. It wasn’t worth panicking yet when he still didn’t know what he was here for. Lashing out would probably just try to make the situation worse and fuel that weird other side of him that seemed to crave violence. That must’ve been what happened before he blacked out again, but this time not returning to any familiar sights in the overworld. Then one particular memory stood out to him among the rest he tried to recall before this moment. Beef, Xisuma’s base, the obsidian cell, Doc complaining about how loud he was singing….what time was it? Had it been hours? Days? But nonetheless, he remembered the name of this vile creature.

The Lord of Darkness.

You remember me, don’t you, Wels.

The Lord was now by his side, clawed fingers trailing over his neck. Briefly, a sting shot through his throat and he gritted his teeth. With a cough, Wels let out a pained noise, then a gasp, then a growl, and finally he spoke.

“Why am I here.” He snapped his head towards The Lord. The creature laughed.

“You best not question The Lord of Darkness. Your little twin is beginning to realize that those efforts are futile.”

Wels raised a brow, The Lord stepping to stand tall in front of him. “Helsknight?”

The lord scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, he’s falling soft. He failed my tasks, so he’s being punished for his disobedience.” In his palm, The Lord generated a small glowing figure of Hels and another of Wels. “I might as well let you in on my little secret since you’ll never be revisiting your body permanently ever again.”

“Wait what? You can’t do that!”

A sinister chuckled left The Lord. “Oh but I can, watch.” The figure began moving, the little Hels growing wings and hovering above the other little knight. “Hels used to be my champion, my strongest soldier. He was fueled by more rage than I’ve ever seen in an Evil Hermit.”

Then, the Hels figure lost its wings and fell back onto his palm, looking around with confusion while the Wels figure drew his sword. Quickly, the sword was lifted above its head and brought down on Hels. The two dissipated into smoke.

“But you, you’re stronger. You have more will than anyone, I believe you could potentially replace him.” The figures reappeared as life sized holograms a few feet away from them. “So I’m using you to punish him.” A figure of Xisuma and Evil Xisuma also generated. “And these two as well. Evil Xisuma also failed my tasks so Xisuma will do my bidding.”

“What are you doing to us? How do you play a role?” Wels asked.

“Simple, I use their malicious energy to fuel you and Xisuma. Without that, they’re nothing and really,” he laughed, ”they will die but who am I to care about that.”

Wels was only further confused. “Then why isn’t Xisuma here?”

“Because, my dear knight,” he pulled Wels’s chin upwards, claws just barely grazing his cheek. “They don’t know what’s happening to him, yet.”

The world shifted around them, bringing them to the roof Toon Towers. A bit away from them, there was Tango curled up painfully and Wels saw himself standing with the bloodied sword. The redness of his eyes was so disturbing, even if he’d seen them on Hels. The scene began playing as if it was in fast forward, Ex killing Tango, Wels panicking, Xisuma and Doc landing on the roof. After a second, it slowed down again. Wels was tied up, the knight expected as much. Though, he did notice that Xisuma didn’t seem like himself. No red eyes or snarky insults, but practically felt it in his own face when X threw a punch at past-him because of a mere insult to his brother. After witnessing another punch being thrown, Wels had figured out what The Lord meant.

“Oh no….” he muttered. “He’s still in the overworld, isn’t he.”

“Yes, on his way to see Evil X now, in fact with your friend Keralis. I made my own little introduction to them in that cell. Impulse and Doc were easy kills.” The Lord pulled up a screen displaying Hels leaning against Ex on the ship, noticeably very tired and if Wels knew anything, he simply just looked sick. “Yesterday, he visited Evil Xisuma to discuss some private matters of their own.” The Lord began to laugh. “He thought a mere confession of love would break him out of my grip.”

“Confession of love? I thought he-“

“He’s all of your hatred, yes, but you Hermits seem to have a habit of changing my little minions. Evil Xisuma especially, I’d say the two have been quite….” The screen changed to the two Evil Hermits sharing a kiss. “Intimate.”

“Oh. Well, at least he’s happy, I suppose?” He glanced at The Lord. “Is that supposed to make me hate him or something? I don’t really have a problem with,” he gestured vaguely, “all that.”

A soft chuckle was heard from The Lord and he shook his head. “No, no, but it’s useful information for my scheme. Soon enough, they’ll be dead as long as I use you and Xisuma. And with you two, I’ll destroy your world.”

“Why do you want to destroy the server,” Wels interjected. “Every time someone from Hels comes here, you always have this intent to just….destroy everything we love.” He glared at The Lord. “And every time, you’ve failed.”

“I’m not the one failing, Welsknight. They do.” The Lord made the images and the figure around them dissipate with the wave of his hand. “I come from a world made of all hatred and malice. In Hels, it’s our responsibility to influence your world, since not everything is sunshine and rainbows.”

“And your point is?”

“We have our intentions and you have yours. If you met our world, just one at a time, you’d want to destroy it too.” He moved to stand beside Wels, staring off into The Void with the knight.

“We wouldn’t,” Wels muttered, his hands balling into fists. “If you know what happened then you should know that Xisuma’s reaction to Evil X was not to kill him or destroy the world he came from.” He stepped away from The Lord, eying him angrily. “You know what he did?”

“Oh, please humor me, Wels. What did he do.”

“He took him with kindness.”

“He banned him, Welsknight, one of the worst possible things that could happen to any of them. And he would’ve done the same to each and every one of us.” The Lord stood taller, eyes glowing a brighter red.

“And he realized his mistake.” The knight stomped with his continuation. “And we took him in with fairness, a promise. That we would never hurt him or anyone he considered a friend.”

“Watch your tone, boy.”

“And for months he’s grown! He’s not your little puppet anymore!”

“I said….” The Lord lifted his hand, fingertips glowing an every red, a ball of light emitting from his palm pointed towards the knight. “Watch your tone.” That said, the ball of light shot from his pal and knocked Wels back with a force to throw him at least twenty blocks.

He landed on his back on some kind of surface in The Void. Solid ground of some kind knocked the wind out of him and he turned over weakly with groan.

“You know I’m right,” he spat. Wobbling in the process, he stood up and turned to face The Lord of Darkness. “You’re attacking me because you know we can change Helsknight for the better! All of the Evil Hermits for the better!” Another blast sent him flying even farther away.

“You Hermits! That’s all you do! You steal my subjects away from me, changing them from what they were destined to be! Do you even know what you’re doing to the world by doing that?!”

Shakily, Wels pulled himself to his knees. “It’s,” he coughed, “It’s not their destiny.” He turned to The Lord. “They’re not made to be pulled around by chains their whole lives! You’re starving them of freedom!”

More balls of energy came and went, throwing the knight every which way. He was right, he knew he was with the confidence of a thousand men. Where they were, this was his mind. He should be the most powerful here, more than The Lord of Darkness, be he wasn’t. Farther and farther he went until The Lord decided he had enough of pathetic attempts at changing Wels’s mind. He stomped over to the knight who took another hit, just barely standing once more, and picked him up by the neck.

“You will regret this, Welsknight. Your world and everything you love will be gone once and for all and me and my minions will roam free of your pathetic lives. You all won’t be around anymore, destroying the balance.” Wels kicked and scratched at The Lord’s cold, dead hands around his throat but to no avail.

“You- you don’t need them for balance-“ the knight croaked. With that, the hand around his neck tightened further and it brought a whimper from him. “You’re wrong….”

“Am I? You don’t sound so sure, Welsknight.”

“I-“ He sputtered as he finally realized he couldn’t breathe anymore. “I can’t-“

“I think it’s time you sleep again, Wels.”

With a sickeningly crimson glow around the two of them, he closed his eyes knowing that this was probably the last time he’d be fighting his inner demons. He was exhausted in his own mind. Hurt, angry, guilty, just wishing for everything to be over.

He thought of Hels. How he finally found his own home and happiness and how it was going to be torn away from him. He thought of Beef, how he dragged him into all of this. Xisuma, Tango, poor Tango, the sight of the injured demon was still fresh in his mind. Impulse and Doc were killed by The Lord of Darkness, probably suffering as they speak. Wels began to feel like he’d done more harm than good, even if it wasn’t in his control. He was losing the trust of some of his closest friends who just wanted to help him out of this state of mind. It felt like a worthless attempt to fight any longer. He couldn’t change anything even when he wasn’t under false control.

So, with those final thoughts, he gave in. His mind still screamed at him to not let go but what was it worth if he tried. What did he gain from splitting headaches and aching limbs and just fighting. Who was he saving when it only brought more distress.

Maybe Xisuma would have better luck fighting off the voices in his head.

[ilguna]

Belamour - Chapter Five (f.o)

summary: they say the odds tend to favor those who need them. well, they were wrong.

warnings; swearing, murder plot ig

wc; 8.7k

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

The second that you walk into the apartment, you’re surprised to see that the place is entirely clear, except for the avoxes that stand off to the side. There’s not even a note left behind. You find yourself grateful that you aren’t being bombarded with questions right as you walk in.

Finnick is, of course, nowhere to be seen. Assuming that he’s in his room like he normally is after long days, you head straight to your room, dreaming of a cold shower and a moment alone to your thoughts. After what happened this morning, you think you’re in need of a good moment alone to your thoughts.

The second you step in, you see that Finnick is sitting in front of your window. You know Finnick said that you have a good view and all, but that doesn’t mean that he has to come in uninvited, especially when you’re not here. You don’t say anything, and he barely acknowledges your presence.

He watches you disappear into the closet, and you don’t peek your head out once to get a look at him. Instead, you gather your clothes for after the shower. When you step out of the closet, Finnick is now turned to you, legs straight in front of him. 

“Are you still going with the careers?” he asks.

The entire wording of the sentence makes you bite the inside of your cheek, staring right at him. He can’t be serious, right? But the longer that he stares, without saying a single word and not laughing once, makes you boil.

“That was the original plan, wasn’t it?” you ask sourly, throwing your clothes onto the freshly-made bed. Your right hand forms into a fist, and you place it on your hip, “That was our original plan.”

“It was, you’re right. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“I know, and I knew days ago. I’m not stupid, Finnick. In fact, I’m a whole lot smarter than you think.” when his eyes drift to the window, clearly not wanting a lecture, “Your alliance is going to get you killed.” you snap, watching his eyes find you again, “But you don’t know that, because you’re too caught up in making best friends with people that are going to die.”

“You don’t know that.” he says back.

“You’re accepting defeat.” you gather your clothes in your arms again. You don’t need him around you, not with that mindset. If he accepts the fact that he’s okay with dying and letting his friends win, then that’s his problem, “You’re a sinking ship.”

“No, you are.” he says, and you turn your back to him, “What would your brothers say?”

“They’d say to do whatever it takes to come back alive. If that means teaming up with the people that’ll carry me for most of the games, then so-fucking-be it.” when you look at him again, he’s halfway to the door.

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me, Finnick!” you shout, slamming your hand into the wall on your way out of the bathroom, “You’ve talked to me for years and it’s like you’ve learned nothing. They told me I can win. And I can, and the process will be a whole lot fucking easier without you in the picture.”

His eyebrows push in, mouth opening, but you finish, “So yeah, I’m with the careers, and I fit in just fine. Get the hell out of my room and stay on your side of the hallway.”

You watch to make sure he leaves, and then for good measure, you lock the doors shut. Your shower is cold, and it feels even colder after what had just happened. You sit on the floor, forehead on your knees as you close your eyes. Your body begins to cool down, no longer feeling so warm. 

You’d really wanted to come in here to think about this morning, worried about the nightmare resurfacing only days before the games. It’s recurring, and typically happens when you’re about to enter a part of your life that you’ll never be able to go back and change.

The first time that really happened was when your mom died giving birth to Alyssum. You went from having her around in the house after school, to her being gone completely. She was replaced by a baby that you loathed for months, until you realized that she wouldn’t be so bad once she got older.

There was a tension between you and your brothers even before your dad died. When he did, it broke it entirely. All of you were broken, and you buried a casket without a body. It was a fishing accident, a handful of fishermen had died. No bodies recovered, the boat was never found. One day you had a parent, and the next you didn’t.

The recurring nightmare is normally drowning out at sea. The boat malfunctions and sinks, and you swim for as long as possible, sometimes trying to get back to land. But it’s always too far away and you never seem to find it. In fact, you’re turned around most of the time. So, you could be swimming away or parallel to the land and you’d never know.

You’re a fantastic swimmer, it’s the worry of getting tired and giving up, slowly sinking into the deep blue depths. You run out of air and will to swim, limbs becoming heavy. By the time you take in your first breath of water, you always seem to realize that you don’t want to die. But it’s impossible to swim back up to the top. You drown every single time.

It’s exhausting. There’s some point where you always recognize that it’s a nightmare but can’t wake yourself from it. You have to go through with drowning, and wake up with puddles of sweat on your sheets. Normally after them back home, you won’t bother with a shower or bath. Instead, you’ll go out and do some mind-numbing task that you’d never do willingly. Like fold the laundry or do the dishes.

You scrub your skin free of all the grime of today, and when you’re dressed you go ahead and lay onto the bed, back turned towards the window because of the sunlight. It takes a long moment before fatigue finally drags you under, and when it does you’re so incredibly grateful. 

Anchor is the one to come and wake you up this time. He tells you that dinner is ready, and that Laurel and Pleurisy are here so don’t be shocked. You thank him, and when he leaves the room, you go straight to the bathroom to fix your messy hair. After trying to brush through it, you give up halfway through and pull it up.

At the table sits everyone but Mags and Finnick. You pick the seat furthest from the two open spots, and slowly but surely, the others settle in, leaving two open spaces. You pick at the lamb stew and rice, not too hungry because you just woke up. Mostly, you listen to the conversation between Elysia, Laurel and Pleurisy, until they all turn they all turn their attention to you.

“How was the session?” Anchor asks, he’s playing around with red wine, you think, “We couldn’t ask earlier.”

Your eyes move to the hallway, you see no shadows, “I don’t want to give it away if he’s listening.”

“He’s not, I promise.” Elysia says.

You take a deep breath, stirring the soup, “Well, I had their full attention the entire time. They kinda laughed at me when I stopped in front of the knife throwing because of how bad I was yesterday.”

Elysia gasps your name, and Anchor seems disappointed too. This is exactly the same reaction that the gamemakers had earlier. Until they saw you throwing the knives, the room went entirely quiet and all you could hear was your heart pounding in your ears and your quick breaths. It was entirely satisfying to leave them speechless like that.

“But out of the nine knives I threw at the dummy, I only missed two, above the shoulder and between the legs.” you twirl the spoon handle between your fingers, “I got a few vital places, that’s all that matters. I was mostly focused on the legs towards the end because that’ll hinder running away.”

Laurel’s got a smile on her face, “Is that it?”

“No, I used the tenth knife on the spear throw and I still nailed the middle. It had to be at least fifty feet or more.”

“That was smart.” Anchor says, “To keep that as your skill.”

“Really, it was my first time throwing. I’m surprised I didn’t miss more.”

Before they can ask anymore questions, a door is opening and Mags appears in the hallway first with a quiet Finnick trailing behind. Automatically, the mood seems to sour. When they try to drill Finnick next, he shuts them down immediately, making it all the more worse. You think it’s clear to them now that you and him aren’t getting along. It was a matter of time.

After dinner, you’re brought to the living room where you sit next to the arm on the right side. Anchor sits to your left, yawning and eventually leaning on his elbows on his knees. Mags and Finnick sit together on the other side, talking about something. And Elysia, Laurel and Pleurisy share their own couch, talking excitedly.

Then, Caesar Flickerman comes across the screen with a wide smile, saying that it’s time to get started. Naturally, it starts with District One, boys first. They’ll pull up a picture of the tribute, and have the numbers flash beneath. You watch as Lennox and Trink both get ten’s.

With Allio, he gets a nine, and Eytelle manages an eight. It’s typical for the careers to get anywhere from between eight to ten. So, Eytelle isn’t that far off but she’s teetering on the edge. You’d say it’s a way to make people underestimate her, so that they think she’s useless and therefore won’t be as worried about her, but the careers don’t work like that.

They want people to be worried, they want the sponsors to have their eyes on them. She just did something wrong inside of the session, and you can imagine that she’s not exactly happy right now. The next time you see her, she’ll probably talk about it.

Blaire scores an eight, Verda a six. The only reason why Blaire’s number is so high is probably because of the hand to hand he did on the second day. That was the only time you really saw him do anything physical, and he likely did that again inside of the private session. Verda isn’t much of a surprise, she’s small and pretty weak.

Then up comes Finnick, scoring an nine. There’s cheers for him, shaking his shoulder and congratulating him. The only reason why it’s impressive with him, is because of his age. It’s expected of the both of you, though. You’re District Four, not District Eight or whatever.

Your face appears on the screen, and you hold your breath. Heart pounding in your chest, you beg for anything above an eight. Something that’ll impress the sponsors, your career friends and everyone back home. Show them that you’ve learned something while you were here. Prove to your brother’s that you’ve got a fighting chance.

Below your picture flashes a ten.

You let out all the air you were holding in. The whole room seems to explode with excitement, feeling your shoulders shake, praise falling upon you. You guess it was for a number of things, the spear, the climbing, the hand to hand and the knives. All of those things combined did something to them.

You’re allowed to leave the living room. You give Laurel a hug and she assures you that tomorrow you’ll be beautiful and looking like you deserve a ten. Before you can actually leave, your arm is grabbed by Anchor, holding you back until Finnick has left entirely, and then turns you to him and Mags.

“You and him aren’t allies anymore, what happened?” Anchor asks.

It’s just the three of you here, and hopefully Finnick isn’t eavesdropping.

“I thought we had a plan with the careers, and I guess I was wrong. He changed his mind and never told me. I saw the people he was trying to be allies with, saw what he was trying to do, and decided that I’d rather go on my own. And I told him that earlier, after the session.”

Anchor nods, letting you go and looking over to Mags, “This is going to sway the citizens.”

“They still think they’re allies.” Mags agrees.

“Let it be a surprise, then.” you say, pulling on your fingers, “They all like a good plot twist, right?”

They don’t have a chance to say anything else, because you’re heading back to your room. You change into pajamas, steal a bowl of ice cream from the food station in the corner, and curl up by the window. You’re not all that tired because of the nap you took earlier. So, you’ll sit here and fantasize about being back home instead.

Your brothers and sister were probably gathered in a house with Naida’s family. Calandra probably brought sweets from the sweet shop in preparation of a high score. Even if you did score low, they’d eat it anyway. But you can imagine that they’re all thrilled right now, with some guilt mixed in too.

You’re only fifteen. So young to be scoring so high. And you’re about to be losing that precious innocence that you’ve been preserving for so long. Actually, you thought you’d get longer. That either you wouldn’t get chosen at all, or you would have been older and more knowledgeable about things.

They all must be conflicted. Celebrating the dangerousness of a fifteen year old child. Caspian is probably cracking jokes about it, much to Naida’s chagrin but Reed’s finding it funny anyway. It’s lightening the mood, and they all nibble on the sugar and try to ease the anxiousness in their bellies.

If they’re nervous, you can’t imagine how you’re feeling. You have tomorrow, the interview night, and then the morning of the games. Two and a half days before you’re inside of the arena.

After you finish the first bowl of ice cream, you go ahead and get a second one. There’s no point in worrying about a sugar rush. The higher you are, the better the crash will be and hopefully it’ll happen soon. You don’t want to stay up too late, but going to bed now will just mean you’ll be laying there for a while.

You hope that the score will ease their worries for one night and they’ll sleep soundly. One full night of sleep with no nightmares. Something that you’d like too.

When you’re done, you set the bowls together in a neat pile and then brush your teeth. You curl up on the bed, facing towards the window this time. You stare out of it, blinking occasionally until your eyes grow tired. Only then do you close them, and find yourself falling asleep quickly.

You wake by yourself in the morning. A look at the clock tells you that it’s nowhere near early, it’s fairly late. It’ll be reaching the afternoon in an hour or two. You should probably get up and take a shower.

With a groan, you stretch your muscles and stiffly make your way to the closet. You pick out an outfit that will be comfortable, and then move your way back towards the bathroom. The shower is quick and warm. Not wanting to deal with your hair in your face all day, you pull it out of your face once it’s semi-dry.

At the table, there’s one empty spot, far away from Finnick. You sit down, watch as a sandwich is given to you, and listen to what Mags and Anchor have to say, now that you’ve appeared at the table.

“You two will be working with Elysia today.” Mags says, “(Y/n) will start.”

You look over to Elysia to see she’s got a polite smile on her face, but when the corners of her mouth twitch, you feel hesitant all of a sudden, “For how long?”

“A couple of hours.” Elysia says, “Then I’ll work with Finnick.”

After eating, you’re brought right back into your room. Elysia disappears into your closet, and when she emerges, she’s got a floor-length dress and a pair of heels in hand. As you change, you watch as she moves some chairs out, and when you’re done, she immediately gets you to work.

You both quickly found out that you’re not half bad with the heels. You’re a little wobbly on some things, but the second after she corrects you and shows you a better way, you’re not wobbling anymore. She tells you that you shouldn’t ever pull the bottom of the dress up farther than your ankles if you need to. After walking, is literally everything else. 

She makes you sit up straight, has you smile on almost anything you say. If you were to make hand gestures, they have to be gentle and lady-like. And then she has you doing a series of sentences that are so drilled into your head that you’re sure it’ll be hard not to use them during the actual interview.

“How did I do?” you ask the end of the session.

“Better than the girl tribute last year.” she rubs your back on the way out of the room, “If you remember all of that tomorrow, you’ll win over sponsors just with your smile.”

You’re traded for Finnick, leaving you with your mentors. You have a small snack before sitting down in the living room with the two of them. You cross your legs, feeling the ache in your feet after walking in the shoes so much earlier. By tomorrow, the feeling will be gone. But for now it hurts.

They stare at you for a long moment, until Anchor snaps his fingers, “Sweet.”

“Sweet?” you ask.

Mags has a smile on her face, nodding in agreement, “Yes, that’ll work.”

“Sweet.” Anchor confirms.

You feel stupid, “Like, kind and nice?”

“Exactly that.” Anchor says, “You’ve already had that air since the tribute parade, it’ll be easy to play on.”

“What about my score?”

Mags has the answer this time around, taking a seat in a long armchair, “Mysterious.”

You hum, it can work. You can make it work.

With the interviews, tributes tend to play up a certain act. Cunning, mysterious, stern, dangerous, sweet, sexy, stupid, decieving, the possibilites are endless. It’s not a surprise that this is what they’re doing, finding an adjective that will fit you, and then demanding you to play that role.

Sweet is easy. As long as you don’t over-sell it, no one will suspect a thing. And Caesar can’t ask you why you got the score you earned, he can allude to it, though. That’s where the mysteriousness can come in. You can change the subject and make sure you leave everyone on the edge of their seat.

“Easy peasy.” you tell them, they look pleased with your compliance. It makes you wonder if Finnick was a nuisance, “So, what now?”

“Mags will ask you questions, and I’ll pretend to be the audience.”

The questions that Mags ends up asking, reminds you of all the years before. All those other interviews of hundreds of now-dead tributes. She’s definitely reusing some, and making some up by herself. You make sure to cross your legs, do the gentle hand motions and smile when you get the opportunity.

You give up information about back home, you know that’ll capture some of the audience’s heart. It always seems to scoop them up, you have family back home and they’re waiting for you. They’ll be at the train station with open arms and tears in their eyes. When you say this, Anchor’s got a wide smile on his face and encourages you to keep going.

You don’t push your luck. Mags then asks the golden question about how you, a fifteen year old, could have scored so highly. And you smoothly and slyly answer the question without really answering it, “Yes, it was a surprise to me too. I’m sure my family back home is excited.”

After the first round of questions is an intermission. “Very good,” they tell you, “now try complimenting the Capitol.” and so you do your best to try and make the Capitol admirable. But it’s hard, and it’s definitely a weakness. The entire time your mind keeps going back to that magazine on the train, and you struggle to not use the titles of the sections directly.

They see that this is hard for you, and instead suggest to keep it all vague. Mags starts again, and you’re doing much better this time around. By the time you’re done, you’ve got a headache, and your thighs hurt from all the chaffing of switching back and forth on your crossed legs.

At dinner, you eat a lot, enjoy the chocolate lava cake that’s served, and even get seconds while requesting ice cream. An idea pops in your head then. Since you’ve grown so comfortable, what would the harm be in trying to align yourself with the Capitol? When you ask your mentors this, they tell you that it’s a good approach, but will be hard with what you’re supposed to be doing.

Nonetheless, you note this and call it a night. You fall asleep easily, feeling exhausted after the day’s work.

When you wake, it’s because Cleo is ringing some annoying bell in her hand. Once she realizes that your eyes are open, she gives you an innocent smile and orders you out of bed. Today is the interview, and you need to get to it.

They shower you, pressing buttons that you’ve never considered before. Once your hair is like silk and your body is sore again, they pull you out. They lather you with the lotion, dry your hair and get to work. Laurel is nowhere to be seen, and Cleo tells you that she won’t be showing up until last minute, when you’re supposed to be wearing the dress.

You watch as they work together. Beth is sitting on the floor, holding onto your hand, applying baby blue nail polish to them. After one finger, she’ll spray something onto the nail, order you not to move it much, and then move onto the next finger. By the time she’s done with the first five and has moved onto the next, your nails are dry. She goes from your hands, to your toes.

Cleo blows bubbles of pink gum. She’ll pop it without flinching, ignoring the loud sounds that it makes. When she had first started the body spray paint, you were confused on what she was doing. Now you realize that she’s spraying on shimmery purple-blue scales here and there. A sort of mermaid effect, you guess.

Leo sits back at first, watching it all come together. Every now and then he’ll point out a spot that Cleo had missed, and she’ll go back and fix it. Soon, your nails are done and dried, no more scales are needed and they’re all heading to work on the most important part. Beth straightens your hair, and then curls the ends of it. When she sprays the hairspray it smells vaguely of vanilla and cinnamon, a smell you remember from when you first came onto the train. She pins half your hair back with a silver, wave-shaped comb. She lets a few hair strands occupy your face, but not enough to overwhelm you.

You don’t know what Leo does. For most of it, he makes you close your eyes. What he does comes in layers, until he’s eventually working at your eyes. All you know is that it has something to do with blue with the way Cleo is swooning over the color. Leo mutters something about glueing silver sparkles to the corner of your eyes to symbolize tears.

They put on fake eyelashes, and that’s the first time you’re allowed to open your eyes in thirty minutes. Before they actually let you get a look in the mirror, they cover your body in a soft glitter. Every time you move, you catch light and sparkle. One look into the mirror, and you’re instantly denying that it’s you.

They’ve accentuated a lot of aspects to your face. A sharper jawline, a slimmer nose and high cheeks. The blush makes you look childlike, but the blue makeup around your eyes with small pieces of glitter and big eyelashes completely ruins the idea. When you move your face from side to side, you can see a blue shimmer. They tell you its highlight. You’re not allowed anymore time in the mirror when Laurel arrives.

You’re not allowed to face anything reflective, so you end up in the corner of the room, facing the wall as you slip the dress on. There’s a clear difference in weight, considering you’ve been walking around in underwear for the past couple of hours. Cleo puts the shoes on for you, and when they’re done, they get to gawk at you before you get to see yourself a second time.

“Oh Laurel, she’s gorgeous.” Beth’s voice is soft, and she leans into Cleo.

“She’s going to completely sell it tonight.” Leo says, “There’s no way she won’t.”

“You’ll have them lined up around the block, (Y/n).” Cleo assures you.

“Give her the last of the accessories.” is all Laurel says.

More wave-themed jewelry. A silver necklace, a pair of earrings that look like water droplets, bracelets that are simply round or continuing the theme. And Laurel pulls out your mother’s engagement ring, slipping it onto your right ring finger.

“It’s been approved.”

In the mirror, you think you look like a princess from one of those books you read as a child. The dress is unreal, the whole experience feels unreal. 

The dress is off the shoulder, a beautiful baby blue, around the same color as your nails. It relies mostly on your upper arms to stay in place, and no matter how you move, it never slips. There will be no readjusting tonight. Your collarbones are clearly out for show, but there is no cleavage. That’ll be a win for your brothers, but a loss for the sponsors. 

Around the top of the dress are gems shaped like water droplets. They’re irregular in both shape and where they’re placed, making it look unpredictable. It makes you think of the days in Four where you’ll watch water droplets race down the window, always unpredictable on where and how fast they’ll go.

It’s long-sleeved but the material is mesh. It’s extremely breezy, and you know that you won’t be feeling hot on stage. It’s poofy, nowhere near skin-tight. The fabric on the top half of the dress creates wrinkles that end at the middle of the dress. More gems appear at the waist, before the bottom of it flares out. There’s a leg slit on your right leg, showing off the fake scales that don’t seem to smudge no matter how often it rubs against the material.

The inside of the dress is made up of silk, while the outside is mesh to give it volume. All together, the dress reaches just above the floor, so there won’t be any holding onto it when you move around. The heels that they had you step into are while, around the same height that Elysia had you walk around in. There’s thin, criss-crossing straps around your ankles, and they’re open toed too. 

Cleo makes Leo apply highlights to your collarbones, and then all four of them circle you like a pack of vultures to try and find anything out of place. They don’t find anything, Laurel is satisfied, and you’re allowed to leave the room now. You resist the urge to play with your curled hair, and instead go for your ring.

Your team is the last to arrive at the elevator, because everyone else is standing there already. Elysia gasps and immediately launches into compliments that you accept humbly. Deciding that it’s a nice time to practice what you had learned yesterday. Even Mags and Anchor are dressed up for the occasion.

You all squeeze into the elevator, with you and Finnick promptly up front. Finnick wears a snowy white suit, with an undershirt that’s the same color as your dress. You guess that Mags and Anchor have taken the plot twist idea into consideration.

At the base floor, you’re greeted with some of the tributes already lined up against the wall, ready to get on stage. The way it works, is that you’ll all be sitting behind center stage, but still in sight of all the citizens. When it’s your turn, or your name is called, you’ll get up and join Caesar in the center. When you’re done, you go right back to where you sit.

You’re going to be on stage for a long time. You’re just glad you won’t be standing the entire time.

You line up right behind Blaire, still playing with your ring. Him and Verda turn slightly at your approach. Verda is wearing a deep green color, and Blaire is in an all-black suit. They utter out a few quiet compliments to you and Finnick, the two of you returning the gesture.

Once everyone has arrived, you’re walking towards the stage in a single-file line. Even though you were sure you wouldn’t have to bring the dress up when you walk, you were thinking about solid ground. Not actual steps. You bring the bottom of the dress up just high enough to get up, and then quickly drop it back down again.

The seats are comfortable, and the gamemakers, and Capitol citizens point and whisper among themselves, excited about how you all look. You tuck the dress beneath yourself when you sit down on the soft, comfortable bubble chair. 

Staring out to the people is enough to make your heart jump in your chest. The entire place is packed, it’s like the entire population is here. For the ones who couldn’t make it, there’s cameras ready to catch every angle. People in the Capitol and districts have their tv’s on. Betters are eager to see their competitors, families anticipating the moment their member gets on stage.

Reed is probably huddled up right next to Mox and Caspian at Naida’s house. Just like the day with the training scores, they’re all together. Waiting for the moment they finally get to see you again, this time bedazzled and grown up. You look nothing like you did during the tribute parade. Then, you looked young. Now you look old.

Then, Caesar Flickerman is coming onto the stage, a white smile and a friendly wave to the crowd. This year, he’s got green all over his body. A light green suit, emerald green hair. The makeup on his face is some sort of medium between the two colors.

He warms up the audience first, and right after he’s calling up Trink. Her blonde hair is in waves over her shoulders, she wears a maroon dress that’s complemented with black and sparkles in the light. For an entire minute, she twirls a strand of her hair around her finger, until the fun questions are done and Caesar’s taking a dip for a more serious air. Now, you can see the viciousness.

“I am going to win Caesar. There’s no question about it.” and then she smiles, and lets out a laugh, and the tension is automatically diminished. She made it seem fun, but it’s like a threat. She’ll kill anyone in her way.

Lennox, Eytelle and Allio are all the same way too. You start to get nervous when Verda is called up, because it’s Blaire and then it’s you. She blushes her way through her interview, but leaves a lasting impression on the audience even after she sits. Blaire makes a performance, even you’re on the edge of your seat. He’s so easygoing that it makes him look like the interviewer and Caesar the tribute.

Blaire takes a seat, and you take a deep breath. Eyes are on you now. You sit up a little higher, letting the smile naturally come to your face. 

“Now onto District Four, with (Y/n) Gallows!” Caesar introduces, you carefully uncross your legs and stand from where you sit. His arm is outstretched in your direction. Every move you make towards center stage makes you feel nervous.

Three minutes starts the moment you stop in front of Caesar, shaking his hand. Your hands are surprisingly dry, even if they were wet, you wouldn’t be able to dry them off anywhere. 

You take a look out to the audience. So many people to impress--no. Actually no, not a lot of people to impress. You’ve already done that with your abnormally high score. Now you just have to sell it to everyone. Sweet and mysterious. Two things that can mix if you do it just right.

Your eyes glaze over the camera. Your brothers are watching. 

You can do this.

When you look at Caesar, he’s already giving you a daring look, “(Y/n), you are absolutely stunning tonight.”

“Me?” you ask, eyes widening, “Caesar, I am nothing compared to you.”

“I have to disagree. Don’t you, folks?” loud cheering follows.

You’re a little surprised that he isn’t taking the compliment. Normally with others, he takes it gratefully and ends up spinning it back to you. He’ll share the spotlight somehow. There’s a difference here. Something is different.

“I love that outfit. The running water effect is absolutely gorgeous.”

“Yes, I think so too. My stylist is very smart with her themes. She was even kind enough to incorporate my token.”

“Where?” Caesar asks, the audience seems to rile up at the thought. You hold your hand out for him to see, and he takes your hand in his delicately, turning to see the ring. Then, he shows the cameras and the audience, which projects onto a bigger screen for those who are too far away to see, “Does it hold any sort of significance?”

“Of course.”

He laughs, “Besides the fact that it represents District Four.”

“It was my mother’s engagement ring.” you begin to explain, “She wore it all the time before she died. My brother’s gave it to me as a surprise when they said goodbye. I think they were anticipating the day I’d get reaped, which is why they were holding onto it.”

Caesar looks sullen, as does the audience, “Do you think they’re watching back home?”

“I would hope so.” you laugh, he does too.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say to them?”

This is perfect. A perfect lead up to steal the hearts of everyone, and show them that you can be more than just sweet and slightly mysterious. You can be mean too, just like the other careers.

You find the nearest camera, smiling lightly at first, batting your eyelashes. You lift your chin, staring right into the lens. They better realize that this is personal, “I will come home to you. I will win for you. I miss you. I love you. And I will see you soon.”

Caesar doesn’t have a chance to say anything else, the buzzer is going off. The audience is loud, cheering and screaming. They jump to their feet, clapping and some even demanding for a little more time. Caesar pulls you in for a side-hug.

“Ladies and gentlemen, (Y/n) Gallows from District Four. Best of luck to you, (Y/n).”

“Thank you.” you smile, waving one last time to the crowd and turning right around to head back to your seat.

You’ve got the eyes of a lot of tributes. All either captivated or suddenly intimidated. Maybe they’re suddenly realizing what they’re up against. Everyone wants to get home, but you just told your family outright that you will win, after scoring a ten. You know something that the rest of them don’t.

Hopefully that’ll keep them on the edge of their seat.

Next up is Finnick, and you spend most of the time fidgeting with the ring, unfortunately not being able to tune him out. You try to get your thoughts to stir, imagining what your brother’s look like back home. But your mind is blank, and you’re forced to watch your former ally dazzle the audience.

It’s only a minute in and they’re already swooning over him. When Caesar asks if he should expect any surprises inside of the arena, you think Finnick alludes to the fact that you and him are no longer allies by saying; “Not everything is what it seems.” and then moves on before Caesar can ask.

Caesar doesn’t even skip over the fact that he’s handsome, “How many girls do you have falling over you at home?”

“More than you’d believe.” Finnick says, “Would you like me to name them?”

You realize then that his motive is casanova. There’s no other way to describe it.

Him and Caesar shake hands at the end of his interview, and Finnick sits down next to you with a smirk. Under his breath he mutters, “That’s how it’s done.” and you bite the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to embarrass him right now by leaving him a nice, red handmark on his cheek.

At the end of the interviews, you stand for the anthem, chin directed upward because it’s required. At the end of it, you’re all filing off the stage, starting with the first district and others following behind it. By the time you reach the lobby, it’s crowded.

Before you can even make your way over to an elevator, Trink is slithering up next to you, tucking some hair behind her ear, “Here’s our formal invitation to have you be in our alliance.”

“I accept.” you smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the cornucopia?”

Allio lets out a laugh, “Are we going to race?”

“I’ll easily beat all four of you, don’t even dare.” Eytelle, and suddenly a small argument breaks out between you all. Lennox tells her that just because she’s tall, doesn’t mean she runs faster. 

She tries to back up her claim, but it’s too late and she’s rolling her eyes. You all have to split anyway, so you bid them goodbye and good luck, to which they do the same. The lobby has mostly cleared then, so you get onto an elevator with a couple of tributes you don’t know the names of, and get off at the first stop.

Inside of the apartment, you’re welcomed with the sight of everyone already at the table. Your mentors, the stylists, the prep teams, your fellow tribute and Elysia.

You skip up the steps, a smile on your face. You gracefully take a seat at the table, and it’s hard to make the smile go away. Not with how you were confirmed in an alliance with the deadliest tributes there is. You are golden. All your ducks have been lined up since the beginning, and now all you have to do is execute it.

When Anchor finally cracks and asks why you’re so happy, you tell them, “I have an alliance.” and let their thoughts take it from there. Dinner is loud, and animated. You listen as the prep team and the stylists talk about what they did and didn’t like on the other tributes. 

You decide it’s a good time as any to bring up the fact that Caesar didn’t accept the compliment, and Elysia agrees that it was a little odd. Then, they’re moving on to how well you sold the part, and how you didn’t even need to worry about the training scores. Cleo says, “Just because he didn’t mention it, doesn’t mean that people aren’t thinking about it.” which eases worries you didn’t even know you had.

After dinner, you’re allowed to watch the interviews over again. You have to admit that everyone sells their part very well. But the second you’re bringing up your dead mom and brother’s back home, you can hear Beth hold onto her breath and Leo is eating every moment up. You did good.

You part with your mother’s engagement ring for the final time, Laurel assures you that you’ll get it back when she sees you tomorrow. Her, Pleurisy and the prep teams all leave after that. The only people left are Mags, Anchor, Elysia, you and Finnick.

Elysia won’t be seeing you in the morning, neither will your mentors. She hugs you and Finnick tightly, and you want to apologize for the glitter on her now, but she doesn’t give you a chance to. She disappears off somewhere.

“Find water.” Anchor says, “Remember the three rule.”

The three rule, yes. Something one of the experts at a survival station had taught you the first day of training. Back when you and Finnick were still sticking next to each other. You can go three weeks without food, three days without water, three hours without shelter and three minutes without air.

You already know that water will be at the top of the priority list. You hope that it won’t be a struggle to find any. A while ago, the gamemakers seemed to have learned their lesson about not providing water for the tributes. They’ll all slowly die off like flies from dehydration. It doesn’t make much for a show.

“Right.” you agree, yawning.

They don’t offer much else besides luck. You carefully hang up the blue dress in the closet, and then you scrub your body in the shower. You watch as the glitter runs down the drain, as the body spray nearly stains your skin.

Your hair goes from stiff to silky smooth again. You try to take care of your hair the best you can when you step out, but you’re so tired that you give up halfway through and collapse onto the bed. With your back to the window, you can hear the distant celebration of the citizens.

You’re done with living easy. Tomorrow you fight for your life.

And your win.

--

In the early morning, it’s only Laurel that wakes you. She has you brush your hair and teeth, but tells you that there will be no breakfast in the apartment. You’re to be transported to the hovercraft immediately, and she’ll meet you at the arena. She hands off a yellow shirt and black pants that are similar to the outfit you wore on the first day of training.

It’s only a temporary outfit. What you’ll be wearing inside of the arena will be given to you in the catacombs below the arena. Either way, the outfit is comfortable and you have no complaints. She brings you to the roof of the Tribute Center, giving you a slight feeling of vertigo and wobbly legs.

A ladder falls from a hovercraft above. You think you’re expected to climb the entire way up, but the moment you’ve got up the first rung, you’re shocked in place. No matter how hard you try to move, you can’t. It’s a good thing. The ladder is pulled up, and no matter how hard it’s jerked, you don’t fall off.

Inside of the hovercraft, you’re fully prepared to be released, but it’s not the case. A man in a white lab coat with a syringe in his hand gives you a polite smile, “This is your tracker. It’ll only hurt for a second.”

You grit your teeth, still very frozen as he inserts the needle deep into your forearm. You can feel the metal tracking device being pushed in. If you weren’t kept in place, this would have made your toes curl and teeth break. When it’s in, you’re released and helped to your feet.

The ladder is dropped once more, and this time Laurel is helped up. Once she’s on her feet, she directs you to a backroom where breakfast is laid out. You go ahead and load up on as much as possible. This is the last real meal that they’re going to provide you with. After this, you don’t know when your next meal will be. 

Once you’re sure you’re full, you go ahead and drink a lot of water, too. Laurel lets you know that the ride is going to be long. For a while, you just watch as the city flies beneath the hovercraft, and then it eventually turns to a forest. You cross your fingers under the table, hoping that they’ve got an arena in favor of District Four.

Really, it could be anything. A frozen wasteland, a dry desert, a tropical island. Forest, city ruins, an old village. Every year, it’s a new place. This arena will only be used once, and after that it’ll be a playground for the Capitol citizens. To take vacations, go on tours, reenact fights.

Their deaths are always turned into some sort of joke. They don’t honor the dead, and you hope that one day that comes and bites them in the ass. It’s disrespectful. Back home, if you even did half the shit they do in the Capitol, you’d be yelled at until Reed’s face turned blue, and then be grounded for however long he feels like it.

Eventually, the windows black out, indicating that you’re almost there. You drink more water, and try to breathe evenly. The games start at ten, and you’d take a good bet right now that it’s an hour away. An hour before you’re inside of the arena. Now, the nerves begin to sprout.

The hovercraft lands, Laurel directs you back towards the ladder. She’s lowered into the catacombs first. You take this time to thank whoever is around you, just trying to be polite. When it’s your turn, you get frozen and you watch as you’re brought through a tube, down to the cement catacombs. From there, Laurel leads you to where your Launch Room will be.

The second you step inside, you begin to feel sick. You take deep breaths, reassuring Laurel that you’re fine and you just need to get a hold of your stomach. You pace, and press your hand against your forehead. She comes around with a cold water after that, and you mostly press it to your forehead, afraid that drinking it will trigger something in your throat.

When you feel better, Laurel makes you take a shower and offers last minute food. You take a small roll that’s the shape of a fish and tastes like salt. It reminds you of the time your mom bought you pretzels from the bakery one afternoon as a treat. You didn’t really like the salt, and had to brush most of it out. But you ate it anyway, and later you discovered just how much you liked it.

You brush your teeth, Laurel pulls your hair out of your face into a ponytail that you requested. You can’t have your hair in your face. You’ve seen all the years before where some tributes during the bloodbath will get their hair in their face while running. If you’re focused on getting your hair out of your face, then you’re not paying attention to your surroundings.

Finally, your outfit comes through in a box. Everything inside is brand new, and not even Laurel knows what’s inside. She didn’t get to choose this outfit, she tells you that you’ll be wearing the exact same thing as the other tributes. There’s complete fairness between all of you.

First is a sports bra and high-waisted underwear. She hands over a pair of black stirrup pants. It takes you a moment to get used to the feeling of the pants being directly attached to your feet. You’re worried about them being pulled down when you’re running, but out comes a thin, black belt to keep the pants from moving too much.

She gives you a thin, faded, blue-grey shirt, “Must be hot.” is all she says. Next is a jacket, which is also thin, but it’s white and has a hoodie attached. You pull on a pair of skin-tight socks. You do a series of motions, being sure that they won’t slide down. They don’t, but you pull them all the way up anyway.

The shoes are black boots, which you tie the laces tight. Once you’re sure that it’s not cutting off circulation, you make sure it all fits. You zip up the jacket halfway, not wanting it to get in the way of running. You have to go to the cornucopia, whether you like it or not. It’ll just be a whole lot easier if you get there first.

“Feels comfortable?” Laurel asks, you nod. Finally, she pulls out your mother’s ring and slips it onto your finger. 

She offers food again, and you ask for water. The two of you sit on the couch together in complete silence. You fidget with the ring, rub your hands against the jeans to get the sweat off of your hands. You’ll be fine, all you have to do is breathe.

This must be how all the tributes before you felt. How everyone after you will feel, too. Absolute terror of the unknown. The second you’re raised and the gong sounds, it’s fair game. Anything can happen. It’s like what you told Reed; the arena is unpredictable. One second you could be fine, the next you could be covered in injuries and fighting for your life.

“I want to go home.” you suddenly breathe out, tears gathering in your eyes, “I just want to go home.”

“And you will.” Laurel says, she’s extending an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into her side and rubbing your arm. This brings a whole new wave of sadness. It’s the exact move your dad did after announcing your mom was dead, “You’re a fighter, (Y/n). You’ve beaten the odds so far, what’s a little more?”

It’s not little, though. You want to tell her that, but all you do is nod. It’s not a little. You have weeks in front of you. Events around every single corner if the arena is boring for longer than a die.

Then, a female voice is saying it’s time to prepare for launch. You take a deep breath, clearing your eyes of the tears. You and Laurel head over to the metal plate. Before you step inside, she’s readjusting your clothes, fixing your hair. It’s such a motherly thing to do. To fuss over things she won’t be able to control in a moment.

“I know you’re not with Finnick.” She says, “So be careful with the careers. You don’t know them as well as you think you do. They can act on whims, and bad thoughts will lead to bad moves.”

You nod, “I know.”

“Good.” she hugs you a final time, you can feel the butterflies start to swarm your stomach and begin to suffocate for you, “I can’t bet on you, (Y/n). But the prep team and I will be cheering you on, okay?”

You step onto the metal plate, “Thank you, for everything.”

The glass cylinder comes down from the top, slowly beginning to encase you. It’s like shutting the lid on the coffin. You wonder if your dead parents are watching you, right alongside your brothers, sister, and family friends. You wonder if they have the same feeling of impending doom dawning on them.

You hold back the tears, wave goodbye to Laurel, and then you straighten up, chin high. You have to look bold for Reed. No matter how awful you’re feeling, you have to pretend right now. You can’t screw up the chance you got, because it’s all you have.

Soon, you’re encased in pure darkness.

[megalony]

Fatal attraction- Part 11

Here is the next part in my King! Ben Hardy series, thank you all for the feedback. There is some fluff in this part for you all.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogermeddow @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @rogahs-drowse @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @peterquillzsblog​

Series taglist: @joseph-mozzerella @pippin248 @ellathefriendlyalpacaaa @lilharms​

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Summary: Ben and (Y/n) are in an arranged marriage to form an alliance and they both want to make this marriage work. But when they have to get to know each other and there is a power play in their marriage, things aren’t going to be easy.

Enjoy.

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"Sir?"

Running a trembling hand over his face, Ben scuffed his feet against the carpet to come to a halt in the hall. His head fell down as he continued to rub at his eyes that were burning and ringed with redness that could be seen from a mile away. He knew that voice right away and the tone of uncertainty and panic made him unsure what news he was now going to receive.

When he finally lifted his head from his hand, he looked at the two members of his council who had been walking with him. Not that they had been very much use other than to tell Ben he didn't look well which he already knew. He had looked in the mirror this morning to find bleak eyes with dark circles beneath them, a very pale complexion and a sense of exhaustion that was never wavering. But he couldn't find the ability to sleep when he was in a different room from (Y/n), yet he didn't hold the will to go back to her yet.

"Take these to my office." Holding his hand out, Ben held the papers towards one of the two men who had been walking with him. He had no need for them anymore anyway, they were only walking in the same direction as Ben but he was to be sidetracked by Amy who had called out to him.

As soon as the papers were out of his hand, Ben turned around to face the maid who quickly curtsied to him before standing straight again, her hands knitted together in front of her as her head was bowed down.

Ben watched as Amy opened her mouth to speak but suddenly stopped herself before she started. Her eyes dared to look up at Ben who she normally tried not to have eye contact with before she looked behind him to where the two men were still standing like they were keeping watch. She didn't want to talk in front of them because what she had to say was for Ben's ears only and not for the gossip of others.

Pursing his lips, Ben turned around and looked at the two men with raised brows and a very irritated expression.

"What are you waiting for, do you need to be dismissed?" His sharp tone and the snide way he spoke was enough for them both to quickly disappear from the corridor, not wanting to agitate Ben any further in fear of the repercussions that would hold. "What is it Amy, is she okay?"

Ben had left (Y/n) in their room yesterday morning and hadn't dared to venture back yet. He didn't want to go back when he was still reeling from what she had told him in case he snapped at her or upset her or made her feel worse. It felt better for them both to try and cool off but he'd still gotten Amy to keep him updated so he knew if (Y/n) was okay and what the doctor had said when he came back yesterday.

"I think you need to come see her, sir." Amy kept her eyes on her feet like she was so used to doing but it was something that irritated Ben. It felt as if she thought he was some wicked man and looking at him would petrify her or do something horrible.

"I don't think that's a good-"

"Your Majesty, please... she was told by the doctor to rest but she won't, she's out of bed and becoming very distressed because you won't see her, sir." Amy finally lifted her eyes in time to see Ben's expression fall before his eyes fell shut for a few moments. He was only staying away to try and help, to let them both calm down, he wasn't doing this to spite her or to make her worse but that seems to be the effect his actions were having.

With a silent nod, Ben motioned his hand for Amy to lead the way and he followed her down the corridor and up a set of stairs on the way to his and (Y/n)'s chambers.

Ben could feel his nerves beginning to ignite with worry as he reached his and (Y/n)'s room. All he wanted was to forget everything that had happened and move on from this but he couldn't just forget and he knew (Y/n) couldn't either. They needed to talk but Ben didn't know how to do that without letting his emotions get in the way and rile him up. (Y/n) hadn't told him what had happened and she kept that secret for months and let him believe she was okay when she wasn't. What was more upsetting for Ben was that she didn't feel she could tell him because he was more concerned that she went through that on her own rather than concerning that she didn't tell him.

It hurt to know she felt she couldn't confide in him and it pained him even more to know (Y/n) had been in immense pain without anyone there to help. Ben would have felt a little easier if he knew (Y/n) told someone, even if it was just Amy because that would mean she had some kind of support when it happened.

When they reached the room, Amy turned to look at Ben over her shoulder with a clear expression of worry on her face before she dared to open the door and walk in. Standing next to the door, Amy clung to the door handle like it was her lifeline as she let Ben into the room and watched him carefully. She noticed how his eyes widened and his lips parted and fell at the corners like he was about to speak but had lost his voice. His hands were twitching, desperate to do something but he didn't know what.

A breathless sound escaped (Y/n)'s lips when she lifted her head, expecting to see Amy hurrying over to her, but instead her eyes landed on the one person she had been crying out to see.

The tears in (Y/n)'s eyes continued to fall down her reddened features as her breathing escalated to the point she was gasping for air. She looked up at Ben through glossing tears and strands of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes but she didn't know what to say. She had been desperate for him to come and see her since he had made it his mission to avoid her and turn down every time Amy asked him to come here but now he was here, (Y/n) didn't know what to do.

Ben stayed silent as he tried to take in the scene in front of him. The sheets on the bed were strewn all over the place and were half hanging off the bed, the pillows were much the same except for the one tightly held in (Y/n)'s hands like she was about to rip it in half. The curtains weren't opened very much but they still looked like they had been handled roughly and pulled with force and there were items of clothing thrown about the room.

Their room was never like this.

(Y/n) had a thing about making the bed, the sheets had to be straight, the pillows had to be in the right place and overall it just had to look presentable. She liked the curtains fully opened no matter what the whether was like outside and she liked clothes put away neatly. Nothing was ever thrown about or left untidy.

But what made Ben want to cry was (Y/n). She was sat on the floor a few feet from the bed, her legs curled beneath her like she had just given up and collapsed down to the carpet. She reminded Ben of a child in distress or one having a temper tantrum, except she was much more broken than that.

Without a second thought, Ben quickly approached (Y/n) and went down on his knees on the floor in front of her, his hands instantly reaching out for her without thinking. He cupped her face in his hands, gently tilting her head up so their faces were level before he dared to move his thumb and wipe away the blood collecting on her lower lip. He knew of her habit to either pull or bite her lip out of nervousness or irritation and it cut him up to see she had taken at least two layers of skin from her lip which was decorated with patches of blood.

Retracting his hands, Ben was quick to wrap his arms around (Y/n) instead so he could hold her to his chest like he was trying to stuff her into his heart. (Y/n) couldn't stop herself from shaking when she curled up against him, digging her fingers into his shirt like she was making sure he wasn't about to pull away and leave her again. When his chin rested on top of her head, (Y/n) was unable to stop a sob from leaving her lips.

"Thank you Amy, you may go now." Ben turned his head to the side so he could catch sight of the maid who nodded with a very relieved expression. She did a quick curtsy before scurrying out of the room and shutting the door behind her. "Alright, come here sweetheart. You shouldn't be out of bed, you still have to rest, you know."

Ben's voice was calming and gentle unlike it had been yesterday morning and it made (Y/n) feel much less anxious. (Y/n) didn't say anything or attempt to move when Ben pulled back enough so he could slip his arm under her knees and his other arm around her back. He slowly pushed himself up from his knees, holding (Y/n) to his chest as she seemed to curl up even more against him like she was desperate to disappear.

(Y/n) loosely wrapped her arms around Ben's neck, tucking her face into his chest as he slowly walked over to the bed. Leaning forward, Ben placed one knee on the bed so he could set (Y/n) down and a faint smile formed on his lips when her arms wouldn't unhook from around his neck.

(Y/n) kept her head pressed into Ben's chest when he planted his hands down on the bed so he was hovering over her, seeing that she wasn't going to let him go. He pressed his face into her neck and breathed in her scent, criticising himself for staying away when he should have just come back when she asked. He didn't have a point to prove and it wasn't a game he should be trying to win, the argument wasn't worth any more pain. Somehow, it didn't feel like they had spent the last day reeling from an argument that had gotten out of hand, it just felt like they were both in need of comfort and like everything else was suddenly forgotten.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you." (Y/n)'s eyes glossed over with tears again when she whispered those words into his ear.

Telling him should have been the first thing she did, she shouldn't have told herself he didn't need to know or that she didn't need his comfort or his help because she did and she knew it. Hiding that from him wasn't fair to either of them and telling him like she did hadn't been a good idea, it had only happened because it was fuelled by pain.

When she thought about telling him, (Y/n) wanted to do it gently, to break the news as easily as possible and to be calm about it. Crying through her words and stuttering through cries wasn't how it was meant to happen, not blurting it out like that.

"Don't apologise, please. It didn't happen to me, it happened to you and you weren't obliged to tell me. I only got mad because I love you and I don't want you to feel alone... promise me you'll tell me if you're hurt or something happens?" As much as Ben felt like he had the right to know, he wasn't the one who went through the loss and that meant he had no right to know if (Y/n) felt she couldn't tell him or anyone else. She had the right to keep it to herself if she wanted, even if it did hurt him to know that.

But Ben needed to know that (Y/n) would talk to him or even someone else in future if something happens. He couldn't bare the thought of something happening or her getting ill and feeling she couldn't talk to him about it and had to suffer alone.

"I promise."

This time it was different. Ben loved (Y/n) and she knew wholeheartedly that she loved him back, she was much closer to him now than when she had the miscarriage so she knew if something was wrong she felt able to talk to him. But nothing like that was going to happen again.

Resting his weight onto his forearms instead of his hands, Ben dipped his head down until his lips reached hers.

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"Has something happened, you've not been yourself these past few days?" Ben's attention turned to look at his mother who was trying to smile but her worry was clouding her expression too much. Nor did Ben grasp the chance to respond to her before (Y/n)'s mother cut into the conversation.

"Is (Y/n) alright, we've not seen sight of her since that ball when you said she wasn't well." There was a sense of panic that was boarding on urgency in her voice and her eyes were full of desperation for an answer she seemed to have been wanting for a few days now. She hadn't been best pleased when Ben had told her yesterday that (Y/n) was still feeling unwell ans therefore couldn't see her, she seemed to be under the impression that Ben was trying to hide (Y/n) away for himself.

Rubbing at his chin, Ben took a deep breath and tried to keep his expression calm but he couldn't help but wish (Y/n) was here with him to do this. Breakfast was over but he was still sitting at the table with his mother and (Y/n)'s parents and a few members of his council because he needed to tell them about the pregnancy.

He had to say something now so no one got suspicious or worried and no rumours started when they realised (Y/n) wasn't leaving her room. The sooner he told people the better it would be in case (Y/n)'s health took another bad turn and this way things could be prepared for when the baby was born.

"That's what I need to talk to you all about. (Y/n)'s feeling better but she's on bed rest for two weeks." Ben let his eyes wander over to (Y/n)'s parents who both looked concerned but equally displeased. They were only here for another week and this meant their time with (Y/n) was now constricted if she couldn't leave her room. Ben was sure they would now be extending their trip and he thought it might be a good thing, it might settle (Y/n)'s turbulent relationship with them.

"What on Earth for?"

"Because she's pregnant." Ben tried to smile when he noticed how their eyes all lit up and it was like he could physically see their levels of excitement rising but his smile didn't appear when his eyes set on his council and he heard the small murmurs from his mother and parents in law.

"Oh honey that's wonderful news, is (Y/n) alright?" There was confusion in Ben's mother's voice despite the delight she was clearly feeling. It was wonderful news for her to hear but the fact that (Y/n) was on bed rest did give the impression that she was either ill or there was something wrong.

"She's not feeling too well but the doctor's been and said everything's fine." A forced, tight-lipped smile formed on Ben's lips as he spoke but it didn't last very long.

Ben bit down on his lower lip as he felt his features tensing when their murmurs started to become louder and he heard a 'finally' whispered amongst both his family and his council. He didn't understand why they couldn't just be happy and think about the fact that this was their grandchild and (Y/n) and Ben's business rather than having an heir which felt more like a business transaction to Ben. That wasn't the reason for them having a child and it never would be. Ben would hate to think what his family or his council would have done if he and (Y/n) had decided they didn't want kids.

"Congratulations, your Majesty, the country will finally have an heir-"

"No, I don't think you quite understand." Ben sat up straighter in his chair, digging his palms into the edges of the armrests of the chair as his eyes focused on the man who was speaking. "This isn't a duty, we're not having a child for the sake of the country and I'd thank you not to talk in that manner again. I don't want anyone acting as if this is a duty to either me or (Y/n), you're not to talk about the baby as an heir, understand?"

His eyes drifted around the table so his family knew that his words applied to them as well and he could see the shock on their faces. This baby wasn't here just to keep the bloodline going and give the people an heir, for all anyone knew their child could refuse the thrown when and if it was passed to them. They were having a baby because they loved each other and they wanted to, not for the sake of anyone else.

"But this child is going to be the heir to the throne, you can't change that your Majesty." One of the men spoke up, sounding like he was trying not to come across as arrogant.

"Funnily enough I haven't forgotten that, I'm not saying they won't one day get the throne, I'm saying that my child is not a pawn in a game that you think you can move to your will and I don't want you talking like they are. You've all tried to push (Y/n) into having a baby and now she is, I don't want anyone talking to her like this is all she's meant for like you have been doing so far. She's not giving you an heir, she's having a child and that's how you will all see her from now on. I hope I've made myself clear."

Ben wasn't disputing the fact that his child would be next in line for the throne Ben had now. He was simply stating that he and (Y/n) were just like every other couple who'd ever had a child and they shouldn't be treated like they were doing their duty or doing a favour to the country. Things hadn't been smooth lately but Ben wasn't going to have anyone hurting or upsetting (Y/n) like they both feared someone would.

He had to protect her.