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kythed · 3 years

Text

synopsis: it’s a tragic case of boy meets girl, boy likes girl, girl has a boyfriend. [un]luckily for you, semi doesn’t play by the rules... and you don’t really want him to.

tagged: semi eita x reader, fluff, mediocre writing.

commitment level: 2,583 words.

table of contents | next chapter >>

They say young love is a rite of passage. They say it’s fresh and light, it’s wading in the shallows of a swiftly flowing river and letting the deliciously frigid water take you wherever it flows. They say young love comes easily.

But they don’t tell you youth is not a remedy for pain. They don’t tell you the cold of that water burns your skin, too — it leaves your fingertips numb and kisses your palms an angry red. They say “it’s just puppy love,” but they don’t tell you puppies grow into wolves.

You’re eighteen when you first meet Semi Eita, and he’s twenty-two. It’s not a highly significant age gap, but it’s noticeable enough.

“She’s a baby,” he says, eyes grey as the southern sea and just as unforgiving. Though he’s young, the weight of an iron giant rests on his slender shoulders.

“She’s talented, Semi,” says Akamine, tone wheedling. He fiddles with the lapels of his coat — it’s Italian, all cream silk and bronze buttons. “She’s capable.”

Twenty year old Akamine Keo is a trust-fund kid, born into the arms of an oil empire he’ll someday fall heir to. He’s charming, clever, and sweet, with distinctly expensive good looks, fine features and black hair like raven’s feathers. He also happens to be your boyfriend.

“That means nothing,” Semi says, peering into your face. An uncomfortable chill tickles the back of your neck as you fight the urge to look away. “There are toddlers who can shred Led Zeppelin, but they’re not musicians. They’re puppets controlled by overzealous tiger moms. They can’t take the heat of the real industry.”

“I can take the heat.” Your words bleed out heavy and sharp, a rough gash through the palpably thick tension. Fingernails leaving painful half-moons on your palms, you clench and unclench your fists down at your sides. “And I can sure as hell shred better than any toddler.”

For a split second, surprise flashes across Semi’s face, only to be quickly replaced by a wry smile. “Brave.”

You stare at him, lips sucked in and eyes narrowed as Akamine slings an arm over your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temples.

“See?” he says with a laugh. “She’s talented, capable, and brave.”

“Well,” says Semi, drawing the word out. He cocks his head, giving you one last hard once-over, before extending a hand for a firm shake. “We’ll see. I’ll give you two months. A trial.”

You accept this compromise, returning the shake. Semi’s still skeptical, you can tell, but you make a vow to yourself — you’re about to blow this sonuvabitch out of the water. As Akamine crows in delight, Semi’s eyes don’t leave yours.

Good luck, they seem to be saying. You’ll need it.

You smile, and he smiles back.

I won’t.

Semi’s a phenomenal bassist. When you’d first started dating Akamine and he’d just joined Semi’s band, he could scarcely shut up about it — “His name’s Semi Eita, and I swear he’s got magic in those fingers, babe.”

Well, Semi Eita’s about to be dethroned, because your fingers are magic, too.

For those two months, you’re the band’s lead guitarist, and you pass Semi’s test with flying colors. It takes a couple weeks to fall into step with the other guys — Semi on bass, Akamine on drums, and a quiet college kid called Yasuda on keys — but you’re a quick study, and soon you’re a cornerstone, expertly weaving searing arpeggios of dashed dreams and fiery hopes up and down the band’s underlying tunes.

(You should’ve seen it coming.)

You and Semi somehow become co-songwriters. He has a knack for melodies, and you have a knack for lyrics. Akamine doesn’t seem to mind the long hours you spend in Semi’s company, working in a whirlwind of messy notes and empty energy drink cans — he trusts you.

(Sometimes you feel like maybe he shouldn’t.)

“What do you think of this?” Semi says, idly twirling a pencil between his fingers. It’s 10pm on a Friday night, and you’re stretched out on his couch, inhaling chow mein from a greasy paper box. “For the second verse, I mean.”

“Lemme see,” you say around a mouthful of noodles, snatching the paper from his hand. You furrow your brow. “‘Tear me open like a scarlet letter, cruelly addressed ‘return to sender…’’ Jeez, Semi. Who hurt you?”

Semi scowls. “It’s a breakup song, isn’t it? It��s supposed to hurt.”

“You might consider being a little more… subtle,” you suggest, offering him a fortune cookie. He takes it and sets it aside.

“Heartbreak isn’t subtle,” he says, shooting you a look that speaks of throbbing phantom wounds. “It cuts deep. All the way down to the heart. Hence the name heartbreak.”

“Wow. I had no idea,” you say drily. You swing your legs over the couch and sit upright, snatching his pencil. “I just think we should tackle this with nuance, not just write another ‘eff you’ ballad.”

“This world can always use another ‘eff you’ ballad,” Semi says humorlessly, resting his chin in his hand.

You regard his suddenly silent demeanor as he stares, unseeing, out the window. It’s dark outside, and it’s a darkness that speaks less of peaceful sleep and more of emptiness.

You sigh, nudging him with your foot. “What was her name?”

“What?”

“Her name. This demon of a girl that hurt you so badly.”

For a moment, it seems he’s going to argue, to deny ever being afflicted with something so childish as lovesickness. Then he runs a defeated hand through his hair and shakes his head, laughing. “You’re too curious for your own good.”

You wait. There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence as Semi chews his lip.

“...Her name was Aiko,” he says finally, inspecting his nails with a faux nonchalance. “Smokin’ hot. Met her in music school three or so years ago, I think — she was a TA, a few years older than I was.”

“Older women, huh?” you tease. This is new territory — you’re dipping a toe into the forbidden arena of flirtation. A shadow of guilt creeps into the back of your mind as you think of Akamine, but the bright light of Semi’s crooked grin swiftly flushes it away.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning over to flick your leg. “I don’t date babies like you.”

“Maybe you should consider it,” you say, unthinking. Semi stares at you, eyebrow raised, and you flush, frantically backtracking. “Not me specifically. I’m just saying — well, I mean, ‘cause this Aiko chick was such a bad time and everything.”

“If you have a crush on me, just admit it,” Semi says. You’re sure it’s meant to come across jokingly, but the way he’s eyeing you twists your stomach into a pleasurable knot. Then he sighs, leaning back on his arms. “She was a great time, actually. It’s the ending that sucked ass.”

The question lingers at the tip of your tongue, hesitant like an ill-trained acrobat, but before it even attempts the leap, Semi answers.

“It burned.” He looks straight at you, and you can taste the bitterness in his words. “It burned, and not a day goes by that I can’t remember how awful it felt.”

That’s the first of the many secrets you trade with him.

Later that night, you tell Semi about your first kiss, about how the recipient smelled like Old Spice and tasted like chapstick, how he walked you to your front door and introduced himself to your mom. About how he took your virginity six months later, and how you soon realized there are some things in life you don’t get an exchange receipt for.

Semi tells you his favorite color is green, and that outer space scares him more than anything. (He doesn’t like thinking about life in other galaxies because he can hardly handle thinking about life right here.)

You tell him you like milk tea with 75% sweetness, and he promises he’ll take you to his favorite cafe sometime. (“Not a date,” he assures you, and you internally scold yourself for wishing it was one.)

He says he once accidentally kicked a stray cat while trying to find a volleyball he lost in the bushes near his house, and that’s why he considers himself a cat person now: as repentance. (He has a pet cat called Haru, and he shows you a picture — Haru is small and black with bright yellow eyes. You say he’s cute, but Semi corrects you: “Not cute. Fierce.”)

You say you used to wish life had a restart button, so you could turn back time and dance through each year without making a single mistake.

Semi says he still wishes that.

(Another thing they don’t tell you is how secrets are really currency. Secrets can’t help but pay for familiarity, and familiarity often leads to something more.)

It’s a couple weeks later when you have your first gig. It’s at a bar downtown, and Yasuda nabs fakes for you and Akamine, though you don’t plan on drinking. Not much, anyways.

(Speaking of Akamine, your relationship with him has grown strained over the past month. He’s stretched himself thin between the band and his business degree, and you — well, whenever your phone pings, you can’t stop hoping it’s from Semi.)

Five minutes before show time, Semi turns to you, eyes wide. “We don’t have a band name.”

“What?”

“We don’t have a band name.” He looks around, frantically trying to draw inspiration from something in the dimly lit bar. “Quick, think of something.”

So you think for a moment, chewing your inner cheek, before reaching out and tugging on Semi’s sleeve. “Paper.”

“Paper?”

“Paper.”

Paper is fragile, it’s thin, it’s easy to come by. But it’s also a world of potential on one sheet, a story waiting to be written.

When the bar owner walks onto the stage and introduces the band, you know you’ve made the right decision. And from the glittering smile Semi flashes you before nodding at Akamine to count you in, you know he thinks so too.

The show goes on without a hitch, and even though the bar is far from packed, you’re just as proud as you’d be playing in a stadium of screaming fans. The air smells of stale whiskey and fresh beginnings, and as your fingers dance up and down your Gibson’s fretboard, you hear colors — rich teal, smooth mahogany, creamy gold and silver brighter than the stars. Akamine keeps the rhythm like a war drum, and Semi, as always, is perfect. Yasuda, doubling as the main vocalist, sings until his voice gets wonderfully low and raspy, keyboard taking some of the heat as he grins back at you, mouthing how badly his throat hurts.

You’re sweaty when the set’s done, and Akamine buys you a drink, giving you a quick, half-hearted kiss and a tired smile.

Akamine’s always been kind to you.

“I gotta go,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Essay due tomorrow at ten.”

He looks so genuinely sorry to leave, you almost feel guilty.

You’re packing up your amps into the back of Semi’s van, alone in the parking lot save for the moon many miles above, hanging bright and full in a clear sky. The moon has seen all your most indulgent sins, and she’s going to see one more tonight.

“You did well.” Semi heaves the last of the equipment into his truck before turning to you, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Consider me impressed.”

“Why, thank you,” you say, giving him a mock bow. “So glad I’ve finally managed to impress the Semi Eita.”

He regards you for a moment, arms crossed. A small sigh escapes his lips. It’s both a sigh of resignation and one of anticipation.

Then, in one smooth motion, he steps close, reaches out, and pulls you close by the waist.

You stare up at him, all too aware of the heat radiating from his body. His skin is burning, and his cologne is different from Akamine’s — it’s not expensive, it’s not a multilayered, deep, woody scent. It’s cheap, the sort of cologne a struggling musician can afford, but it smells of home.

“Forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he whispers, sliding a hand up your jaw to cup your face. His hair glows silver and ghostly under the streetlamps.

“And what are you about to do?” Your voice is deadly quiet, and your chest feels a deathly cold despite Semi’s proximity, refusing to thaw as you await his answer.

“Kiss you absolutely senseless.”

Semi’s never been one to make empty promises, and right now is no exception. He presses his lips to yours and you immediately melt into his arms, suddenly craving him and only him. You’re not entirely sure how you’ve managed to avoid devouring him whole up until this point, because he kisses like Eros, full of pomegranate seeds and crimson blossoms, of days spent in clandestine bliss. He kisses like a man on death row, desperate and longing, hands squeezing your waist like your body is his only anchor to life itself.

Semi Eita wants to be a rockstar, but right now he’s just a boy kissing a girl he’s bound to fall deeply, inexplicably in love with.

When he finally breaks away, you’re breathless, staring up at him like you’ve just seen an angel. Your hands are still curled in the front of his shirt, you’re still standing on tiptoe, lips just inches from his.

“Semi…” You swallow hard. “Akamine’s a good guy… I can’t.”

Semi tenses his jaw, taking a finger to lift your chin. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Like what?”

“Like you’re hungry.”

He’s got you there.

You’re standing on a balance beam splitting two vastly different worlds. On one side there’s the known: Akamine and his bright, blue-eyed optimism, his willingness to shoulder burdens he shouldn’t have to. There’s his sweet touch and soft kisses, his firm words of reassurance and his sunny laughter shedding light on your hidden depths.

The known is comforting. It’s familiar.

But on the other side… there’s the unknown. There’s Semi Eita in all his scalded glory, his sharp tongue and headstrong determination. There’s his burning touch, his fingers leaving scorch marks on your cheek and his lips depositing glowing embers in your mouth, ready to ignite at a single inflammatory word. There’s his moonstone enigma, the shadow underlying his every sentence like smudged eyeliner.

The unknown is frightening, almost overwhelmingly so… but there’s something in you, something willful and terribly thirsty, that draws you to this unknown and the possibility of knowing it.

“Because I am.”

And you grab his face and pull it down to yours, impatient, frustrated by months of dancing around that painfully tangible attraction, that magnetism — finally, you allow yourself to fall, hurtling through a chasm of fallen stars and ancient suns, hanging on to nothing but Semi and his carefully guarded secrets.

You kiss him hard, pouring your soul into his mouth, all your youthful doubt and hope. You knot your fingers in his hair, and he pulls you into his chest, pressing your body so close it’s as if he wants to make it a part of himself.

And when you part for the second time, chest heaving, you know you’ve fallen completely, entirely, without a doubt.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fic #haikyuu writing #semi eita #semi eita x reader #semi eita fluff #semi eita angst #semi eita fic #semi eita imagines #semi eita headcanons

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prettyterribleimagines · 3 years

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Sorry that is quite the question you're right. Could you please do yandere female phantom thieves + kasumi please?

No worries Ian, writing for my regulars is wht I do ^^ also, I will try to answer the asks there were made off of anonymous these next few days as well

Ann Takamaki

Ann is incredibly manipulative and will cause as much trouble and drama as possible to get her darling to comply with her demands and wishes. She is incredibly needy and insists on spending as much time as possible with them no matter the situation. She undoubtedly will use the tragic accident that happened to Shiho as a way to get leverage when confronted with her darling.

When with her S/O she is quite loving and dotting, always hugging and kissing them no matter how many people are around. She doesn't do this because she feels the need to show others they are together, she does it because nothing brings her as much joy as touching her darling.

Normally, no one would be able to notice how controlling Ann is, but once someone notices that Ann decides her darling's clothes, lunch and even when they get to have a snack or go to the bathroom it is impossible to unsee it.

Ann can get angry extremely angry out of nowhere from the slightest slip on her darling's part. She will never lay a finger on them with the intent of harming them in a fight but she will use her newfound liking for whips on them every night

Being a total freak when it comes to controlling her darling's everyday life she will insist on having them text her every hour if they ever have to stay too long apart. Failure on following her wishes and demands usually end with her creating horrible rumours around every circle of friends they have until they yield.

Makoto Nijima

Another control freak but the way she goes about it is undoubtedly different from how Ann does it. She will teach her darling how to behave properly even when she not around. She has so many rules and guidelines that it's almost impossible to follow them perfectly every day.

She doesn't do PDA and doesn't go spreading the news that she is in a relationship with them either, what they have together is their secret and their's alone. But it's also important to note that she will tell her sister about her their relationship and buy them a ring that they have to wear and clean every day to show their gratitude for her generous gift.

She can be extremely violent when she discovers that certain rules aren't being followed and perfectly as possible. She doesn't hold back when punching her S/O and with her strength, she will leave more than a few bruises everywhere. She doesn't take care of her darling after she is done either, it's a punishment after all if they wanted her to be gentle they should have obeyed.

She insists on having them study as hard as possible to have the highest grades in their class. She will make sure they study at least three hours every day even when they are on break. Studying is nothing more than discipline, and how would they possibly have the discipline to obey her if they aren't capable of being at the top of the class?

Needless to say, she will also decide what job they will have when they graduate from school. And so, after her darling graduates, they will work as a secretary for her, and they will have to work as hard as possible to avoid punishments inside or outside closed doors. If they let her down one too many times, she will fire her darling and make them stay inside their home all day every day.

Futaba Sakura

Being a professional hacker she is able to spy on her darling to her hearts content no matter how far away they are from her. She keeps an close eye on everything that she can pry into, bank transactions, conversations and even their online activity.

She doesn't have the courage to make herself known to them, even creating a fake account to interact with a normal post of theirs already feels way too intimate for her poor little heart to handle. She only watches, never having the bravery to reveal herself to the one she loves.

She absolutely hates every "friend" her darling has, they are little leeches that don't know how to treat her darling with the love and respect they deserve. She keeps an watchful eye on their interactions as to know who she needs to remove from their life.

She will contract someone to break into her darling's house to steal anything that they interact with, may it be a shirt or a hairbrush. Needless to say, she will go to great lengths to make sure her employee doesn't take anything other than the desired item or disturb the room.

She has actually never seen her darling in real life before, she wouldn't be able to handle the anticipation and intensity of such a grand event. All she is able to handle is pictures, videos and live feeds of them that she gets through webcams and cameras she hacks into.

Haru Okumura

As yanderes the others are manipulative, violent, remorseless and vicious but Haru is the only one that's actually deranged and has a warped view of the world (I could even write how her yandere palace would be if you guys want <3). She actually believes that her feelings for her darling are mutual and they carry out a normal day to day life

Haru views everything that she does to her darling as a scene from a romantic movie, never realizing the dark undertones she herself creates on every situation with her unhinged behaviour and maniacal actions. For example, everyday she has a tea break with her darling where they can settle down for a minute and enjoy each others company before returning to their busy lives, but this situation is way more sinister than it seems since Haru's partner is actually wearing a shock collar that is turned on everytime they fail to talk the way she wants them to.

The moment her obsession comes up she already inserts on her darling's life, doing her best to fit in perfectly on their circle of friends and family. To her, they have already been in love for years even if they had met that very day. The way she acts with others, no one ever suspects how twisted she can be towards her S/O

Even though she believes she is in a fairy tale, she will use every last connection she has and any money she can spare to have complete certainty that there is no way her darling can ever run away from her. She will have cameras installed on every room of their home, not to mention the 24h surveillance that bodyguards will keep on them every day.

Haru has a lot of money so she won't hesitate to use said money to buy toys that will help her darling stay in line, like handcuffs, ropes, shock collars and even hammers and knifes so she has something to use when they really act out of line. Needless to say, she will use all of those instruments with a sweet smile on her face, not even their ear piercing screams being able to pass through her delusion

Sumire Yoshizawa

She is another stalker, but she maintains an close proximity to her darling, always able to touch them if she extends her arm out but just away enough to stay undetected. She will get as much information she can about her darling and even the ones around them.

She leaves small ornaments on their table everyday, that's her way to make herself known, even if they end up thinking they were being misplaced by someone. Other than that, nothing would change on her darling's life. No friends would go missing, nothing would seem out of place and not even objects would dissapear out of nowhere.

Sumire wouldn't be able to bear losing her darling, and so she would do everything in her power to be as close to them as possible. She might even move out with them to other cities or even countries if it meant she won't have to be alone anymore.

Since her infatuation with that person grows and grows every day, inevitably, one day she will become so obsessed that just looking at them won't be enough, thats when she would reveal herself to them. Naturally, they won't even learn her name before Sumire's finds it's way into their throat, and after all that time, they can be together

#persona 5 #persona 5 royal #yandere #yandere hcs #imagine #hcs #female yandere #futaba sakura #ann takamaki #makoto nijima #haru okumura #sumire yoshizawa #phantom thief girls #phantom thieves #yandere phantom thieves

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 6,196

Chapter Warnings: swearing, implied s.uidical ideation, non-graphic panic attack

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur frankly has no idea how a reunion with his father is supposed to go, considering the circumstances. Also, a ghost makes an appearance.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Three: listening for that angel choir

He comes to awareness violently, lurching into a sitting position, his hand outstretched before him. He is silent, but that’s probably only because he trained himself to be, back when they were so afraid of someone finding where they were, down in that dark, hidden ravine, stone on all sides and darkness above, closing in. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about,

(fire all around and the world falling to pieces and it’s all so very beautiful, and the worst thing is Tommy’s horrified face but he’s too far gone to care)

but the vestiges cling to him like cobwebs, difficult to shake off. He takes a moment to steady himself, to bring his breathing back under control, and then looks around, the remembrance of where he is coming swiftly. Technoblade’s living room is unchanged from last night, but there is no sign of Technoblade himself.

There is, however, someone in the kitchen.

He can smell food—eggs, he thinks. There’s someone moving around, their tread light and sure, and he knows those footsteps, knows them like he knows his own name.

He is standing before he can think better of it, and it is habit that keeps his own strides silent. He walks to the doorway of the kitchen and stops there, stops because there is a man at the stove, his back turned to him, but Wilbur doesn’t need to see his face to know him. He never has.

Something about this picture is wrong, though, and he doesn’t know what it is. He’s seen this a thousand times, if not in this setting, has woken up to this exact thing on countless occasions, back in their old home, back before Techno started going off to tournaments, before Tommy and he left to make their own ways, before Phil started spending more and more time on hardcore worlds, out of contact. Before all of that, it was just this, just Phil making them all breakfast in the sun-soaked morning.

Something about it is wrong, and he can’t pick it out, and he can’t stand here forever. He could leave, could turn his back and slip out the front door when no one is watching, but that won’t be well-received, and he hardly wants to be followed. That really only gives him one other option, and it’s ridiculous, how fast his heart is beating, because it’s just Phil.

(it’s just Phil, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? just Phil, and you can’t face him, not after what he did, not after what you made him do)

It’s just Phil.

So he leans against the doorway, and he clears his throat.

Phil whirls around, spatula raised.

(was he always on such a hair trigger? or is that new?)

He lowers it after a split second, his face flickering through several expressions too fast for Wilbur to process. Eventually, he settles on a warm smile, but there is something lurking around the edges, something that he is hiding, though Wilbur has no hope of figuring out what. For some reason, this doesn’t feel like seeing Techno again at all. With Techno, it barely took a moment for old patterns to resurface, barely took a moment to remember how to read him, but with Phil, it’s almost like looking at the face of a stranger.

(did you think he’d be the same? did you think he would be unaffected? even the most stable of anchors rusts eventually, exposed to the deep water)

“Wilbur!” Phil says, and he could weep to hear the sound of his voice, even though it hasn’t been that long, not technically. Not that long since the last time Ghostbur spoke to him. “Good morning! Did you sleep alright?”

He thinks about his nightmares and decides not to say anything.

“Pretty alright,” he says, and then adds, belatedly, “Good morning.”

The words come out awkwardly. It’s too casual, too normal, and everything that’s happened since the last time they ate breakfast together is sitting in the air between them, about as unobtrusive as a flashing creeper and just as dangerous. There’s too much left unsaid, and he has no idea how to go about fixing that.

So he just keeps standing there. Silently. And Phil stands there too, just as silent, just as watchful, just as awkward, and perhaps Wilbur should take comfort in the fact that he, too, seems to have no idea what to do. But he finds no room for comfort within himself, only a vague resentment, because wasn’t Phil planning to bring him back anyway? Just what was his plan for afterward, if he had managed to succeed? Was it this? This silence, this hesitance, this painful awareness of the distance between them, of all the things that went so bitterly, terribly wrong?

If this was his plan, Wilbur can’t say that he’s all that impressed with it.

But then, Phil steps forward. Only a bit, and slowly, as if he’s approaching a startled animal. Wilbur would be angry at the implication if he didn’t feel like he was one, if there weren’t something snarling and desperate caged within his ribcage, calling for him to either fight or flee.

“Would it—” Phil starts, and then stops, and it’s odd, because Wilbur doesn’t remember his father ever being so hesitant. Phil’s confidence has always been quiet, but at the same time unmistakable, and that makes this so very strange. “Would it be alright if I hugged you?” he goes on to say, and Wilbur’s brain stutters to a halt.

He can’t help but remember

(the spatula becomes a sword and his great creation is in ruins around him and he is laughing and sobbing and wild and everything is spiraling, spiraling, and what a glorious destruction it is, a beautiful chaos, and the center cannot hold and he is begging pleading shouting and there are tears streaming down his father’s face and an awful waver in his voice, but the sword is in his chest and he can feel nothing but relief, relief, relief, it’s over now, you can rest, your symphony is not finished never finished but it is over at long last, good night, good night and goodbye)

the last time Phil held him.

But that was then, and this is now,

(isn’t it?)

and Phil is watching him with an expression that might be either desperation or hunger, masked behind a slight smile, and that is what drives him to nod, what drives him to open his arms slightly, and then Phil is embracing him, and—

The mess in his head goes quiet. Just for a second, his father is enough to drive his demons away.

And it’s like fireworks on his skin, fireworks at first and then an all-encompassing warmth, and he doesn’t fit into Phil’s arms quite the same as he did when he was a child, is taller, older, cobbled-together pieces of the bright future he used to have, but something in him recognizes this feeling, recognizes it as safety, as comfort, as home. He slumps a bit, melting into the touch, and Phil doesn’t complain at suddenly holding up half of his weight, just adjusts his position a bit and grips him tightly, like he thinks that Wilbur might disappear if he lets go.

“God, Wil,” Phil murmurs. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Wilbur closes his eyes against the words. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Phil that he isn’t. Even if for a moment, he can pretend. Pretend that this was his idea, that he’s alright with this, that what he wishes more than anything else isn’t to escape back into rest and away from this world that is too bright and too sharp and too laden with consequences.

“It’s good to see you,” he says instead, and that, at least, is mostly honest.

His hands are clutching the back of Phil’s shirt, entangled in the fabric, and beneath his hands, he can feel Phil’s wings shifting. It is then that he realizes what he didn’t, earlier: Phil is hiding his wings, and that is what is wrong, because Phil never does that around the house. Never.

Though, come to think of it, Ghostbur never saw him with his wings out either. Not once.

Did Ghostbur ever question it? Did he ask and then forget about it, because the answer upset him? Or did he just not bother, presuming that Phil had his reasons and that everything was alright? That sounds like something Ghostbur would do, and for a moment, he is overwhelmed by a seething rage at his dead counterpart, because why couldn’t he ever be useful—

(better to be useless and happy than alive and miserable and the cause of everyone else’s misery to boot, better to forget than to remember, better to let it all go and float away in the wind with the dandelions and the blue blue sky)

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, and he realizes that he’s balled his hands into fists. He pulls away from the hug, steps back to meet Phil’s eyes, pretends that the sudden lack of contact doesn’t leave him feeling bereft.

He tries for a smile. He doesn’t think he manages very well. His skin feels as though it’s stretching oddly, as though it’s forgotten the proper shape for the expression.

“I’m fine,” he says, and that—that is a lie. That is a lie for sure. But what else is he supposed to say?

The wings—or lack thereof—are bothering him. Now that he’s spotted their absence, he can’t unsee it. He’s not sure how to ask, though, because he has the sneaking suspicion that

(he shielded you you idiot shielded you from your own explosion from your own destruction don’t you remember don’t you remember the way he cried out and the feathers in the air and he was holding you holding you don’t you remember don’t you remember how he tried to protect you even to the last don’t you remember)

there’s something about it that he’s not understanding, still, and he hates this, hates not even being able to trust to his own recollections, but he supposes that’s what he gets for his troubles. A beating heart and a mind full of holes and a wide open world that feels like a cage and a precarious stability that he thinks might go out from under him at any moment, like sand into a hidden ravine, and he’ll be sent down, down, down—

“Oh, great,” Techno says, and Wilbur jerks, wheeling around. He hadn’t heard him—but then, Techno has always been able to move far more silently than ought to be possible for someone with such a terrifying presence, with such a weight to his blood-soaked step. “You guys are being weird, aren’t you?”

He blinks.

“What?”

“We’re not being weird, what are you on about?”

His voice overlaps with Phil’s, and it’s a bit weird.

Techno snorts, stepping further into the kitchen. “Don’t be weird in my house, you guys,” he says. “If you’ve gotta be weird, do it somewhere else. I can’t take this.”

“What, the great Technoblade can’t handle an awkward social situation?” he says, and there is more bite to his voice than he intends, and Techno hears it, judging by the way his lips twist into a scowl.

“You know I can’t,” he says. “I hate socializing.”

What should have been a joke has turned into something that is—not. Wilbur should have known better than to push, maybe, should have known better than to call Techno out, because Techno does hate socializing, does hate being forced into awkward situations, hates an enemy that he cannot defeat with his sword. But then, none of that is quite right either, because awkward social situations are one thing. This should be quite another. Because they’re family, or at least, they’re meant to be, and no amount of awkwardness should be able to outweigh that. And yet, here they are, Techno glaring and Phil quiet and Wilbur suppressing the urge to bolt from the room and start sprinting across the tundra.

Staying the night was a mistake. Not leaving when he could was a bigger one. He’s not sure what he was thinking.

(he does, he does know what he was thinking, and he was thinking that he wanted things to be the way they used to be, if he was going to be alive, if he was going to be forced to live in this world once again, he wanted a family that was strong and steady and whole, not the fractured mess that this is, not fragmented and separated and snapping at one another’s throats)

“I’m making breakfast,” Phil puts in. He seems so very weary. Wilbur’s not sure why he’s only picking up on that now, but the bags under his eyes could probably pass for bruises. “Techno, Wil, how about you sit down? The eggs’ll be off in just a few minutes.”

Techno huffs, shooting Wilbur one last glare. But then, he does as Phil asks, sidling past to sit at the dining table, the chair legs making an awful scraping sound against the floor.

Wilbur remains standing.

“C’mon, Wilbur, come sit down,” Techno says. “I want eggs.”

Something shifts. His blood is buzzing, like his veins have been replaced with live wires. It’s a picture of domesticity, father making breakfast and son waiting for it, and he belonged here once but now he’s a piece that doesn’t fit, his edges worn away and grown out wrong.

(they shouldn’t fit either, and it’s wrong that they do, wrong that they’re comfortable with this even when the picture is incomplete and Tommy isn’t here)

“I’m not staying,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know he’s going to say it until he does. And once he does, it’s out there, and he can’t take it back. But he doesn’t think he would if he could. It’s the truth, even if he’s only just discovering it. He’s not staying. He can’t.

Phil has turned back to the stove, but Wilbur can see the way his back goes stiff, the way his shoulders hunch, just a little.

“It’s breakfast,” Techno says slowly, almost bewildered, if Techno did bewilderment. He doesn’t, usually, but perhaps that’s another thing that’s changed sometime between Wilbur’s death and now. “You can’t stay for breakfast?”

“I can make something else, if you don’t want eggs,” Phil murmurs. Wilbur barely catches the words.

“It’s not about the eggs and you know it,” he snaps, and then stops to take a breath. Phil is silent. “Look, I wasn’t even planning on being here as long as I have been. Where’s Tommy?”

“At his old home, I think,” Techno says. He is holding himself very still, watching Wilbur very carefully, and viciously, cruelly, Wilbur considers making the attack that he is so clearly expecting. Considers leaping across the table and going for his throat, rolling around on the ground like they did when they were kids, playing, roughhousing, sparring, only this wouldn’t be any of those things. He wouldn’t be able to defeat Technoblade, of course, but he’d be able to get a good few licks in, even if he doesn’t have a real reason to do so,

(he wasn’t there for Tommy he left Tommy alone left him to that monster’s mercy he abandoned him and even when Tommy came to him he discarded him again tossed him aside as if they weren’t raised together weren’t brothers as if none of it meant anything at all he spawned withers in L’manberg and destroyed it destroyed it all destroyed even what it stood for and there won’t be any coming back from that)

even if his rage is aimless, directionless, building in him like a volcano begging to erupt, begging to destroy everything in its path, to delight in the carnage and—

He’s felt like this before. He’s felt like this before, and it didn’t end well, and it set the stage for all of Tommy’s suffering, and if that’s not a reason to try to hold back, he doesn’t know what is.

“That’s not what I was asking,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m asking you why he’s not here. You don’t see a problem with it?”

“We’re not on the best terms with Tommy at the moment,” Phil says quietly, and Wilbur wishes he would turn around so he could see his expression, but for now he’ll settle for glowering at his back.

(where was the father when his son needed him the most? not there, not there, never there, and what happened to the father who raised them, to the father who promised he would always be by their sides?)

“And whose fault is that?” he demands. “He’s a fucking kid, Phil! He needed someone in his corner, literally anyone, and I’m sorry, but the fucking amnesiac ghost couldn’t quite cut it!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Phil asks. “Do you really think I don’t have any regrets? That I wouldn’t give anything to have him here, safe with us?” Phil wheels around, then, and usually, in times past, such a motion would be accompanied by a flaring of wings, an instinctive response, but there are no wings behind him, and without them he looks so very small. Once again, Wilbur is struck with that overwhelming sense of wrongness. “I know damn well that I failed him, Wil, that I failed all of you. You don’t need to tell me. I already know.”

“Phil, wait, no—” Techno starts, but Phil shakes his head.

“I have, Techno, don’t try to deny it. I’ve failed you all, and the worst bit is that even when I had chances to try to fix things, I didn’t take them. Haven’t taken them.” He meets Wilbur’s eyes. “All I can do about that is apologize. I am sorry, truly. But Tommy doesn’t want to see me. He’s made that clear, both after you died and after Techno and I destroyed L’Manberg. If you’ve got ideas, Wilbur, I’m open to them.”

And really, what is he supposed to say to that? His rage shrivels up, becoming something cold and hard and acrid on his tongue. Phil believes what he’s saying, that much is clear, and perhaps that’s the most disappointing thing of all, that he’s given up so easily, given up on keeping their family together.

(part of him understands. part of him understands that in the wake of everything, in the wake of his father murdering one of his sons and alienating the other, of course he would retreat to the third, to the one who was still there, to the one he thought he could still help. part of him understands the way that he clings to Techno, unwilling to lose, in his eyes, the only son he had left to him. part of him understands why Phil always takes Techno’s side)

(but part of him whispers, bitter and sharp, that Techno has always been the favorite. so was it ever really a choice, between Techno and Tommy? did he lose sleep over it, any time during the late watches of the night? or was he secure in his opinion that he’d done all that he could do, even though he never tried to do more?)

“I need to go,” he says, and braces himself for their renewed protests. But Techno is silent, and at length, Phil nods once, short and sharp.

“Will you be coming back?” he asks, and Wilbur gives the question due consideration.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.”

Phil closes his eyes. Nods again.

“Okay,” he says. “Please be safe.”

It’s as close to a blessing as he’s going to get, as close to an understanding as they will reach, and somehow, it sounds like more of an apology than anything else Phil has said. And if, for his own peace of mind, Wilbur has to pretend that he doesn’t hear how wrecked Phil sounds, how he seems to have aged another five years in the past five minutes, well.

“I’ll try,” he says, and he’s not sure whether he means it or not, and he thinks that if he stays here any longer, in this small kitchen with eggs on the stove and his father standing in front of him like he’s pronouncing a death sentence and his brother glaring balefully from one side, he will lose his resolve.

He’s angry, but he doesn’t want to hurt them. Not really. That compulsion is gone, it seems, washed away in the peace of the void, and only time will tell if it will return, now that he’s been ripped back into existence.

But in the end, hurting them is the thing he knows how to do best.

So he leaves. Nods once, sharply, turns on his heel, and walks toward the front door, grabbing his coat as he goes. It’s not in the same spot he left it in last night, is draped near the crackling fire, and there’s only two people who could have placed it there and Phil wasn’t there by the time he fell asleep, he knows, and his mind recalls the sensation of a blanket being draped over him. That is enough to get him to stop, to pause.

But not to stay.

The sunlight is cold, but he barely feels it at all.

----------

He manages to make it out of the tundra before he breaks down.

He wasn’t expecting it, even though he probably should have been, but it doesn’t matter either way, because he blinks and he’s on the ground, hands braced against wet grass, heaving for breath because this is so fucking fucked up—

It was a mistake. Going to Technoblade was a mistake, because now he and Phil both know that he’s back and he just walked out on them and he’s so angry at them for so many things but now they’re probably angry right back and when the fuck did his family get so fucking broken? And now he’s here, in the forest again, and he’s all on his own

(but he’s not on his own and there are so many eyes watching him)

(he is on his own because there’s no one to stand with him, no one brave enough, no one who truly sees)

(he is on his own because he’s pushed everyone else away and even at his lowest point there was a voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to stop to walk away to take a step back and gain some fucking perspective but there’s no one there for him and it’s all his fault)

(he is on his own even though Tommy is still there, despite everything, because even Tommy is wary of him now and that same voice tells him that he deserves it even as he denies it all and decries his little brother for a traitor)

(but he’s not on his own)

and his empty stomach is rolling and he can’t fucking manage to get a good breath in, and this might be how he dies again, and he doesn’t think he would mind all that much if it was because he still doesn’t want to be here, with all the cares and all the worries and all the responsibilities piling up on his back once again, and who the fuck thought this was a good idea? Who the absolute, ever-loving fuck took a look at what he did last time, took a look at how he cracked under the strain and blew up a city, and thought that it was a good idea to bring him back into the world?

In fairytales, when monsters die, no one brings them back. The victory is celebrated and the villain forgotten and their grave spat on. Wilbur never got a grave, but the principle should be the same.

He still can’t breathe properly. He’s gasping for air, but he can barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He might die here. He might die here, and he’d be mostly fine with that, if it weren’t for—

Tommy.

It’s probably Tommy’s fault that he’s here. Probably Tommy who—got Dream to resurrect him, and he really does need the details about that. But he still wants to see him, still wants to see his brother, and the original plan holds true. Find Tommy, then kill Dream, and maybe then he can think about his options. He can’t allow himself to die here, even if he feels like he’s going to, like his ribs are going to crack apart and his brain pound right out of his skull.

(and even besides all of that, what would Tommy think if he saw the message on his communicator, saw WilburSoot died without any context at all, without knowing that he was back in the first place?)

It’s easier when there’s someone there to help him. But he has no one, so he regulates his breathing himself, little by little, his progress set back every time a new wave of panic and desperation crests over him and makes him choke on air. But he does it. It’s not pretty, but he does it, and after some time, he’s kneeling in the grass, exhausted and wrung out and still here, for better or for worse.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!” Each one increases in volume, and by the last one, he’s shouting. No one answers. He thinks he startles a few birds.

And then the forest is silent. He curls his fists into the grass, tearing up a few blades.

To the side, there is a flash of blue.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

(there’s something he’s forgetting)

“Who’s there?” he calls, his voice rough and hoarse. “You’ve been following me, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Come out where I can see you!”

He gets no response, but he can’t say that he was expecting one. He clambers to his feet, sighing sharply through his nose.

(there’s something he’s forgetting something was it something he said to Tommy what was it)

“Last warning,” he says. “Come out. Or I’ll make you.”

It’s an empty threat, said with more confidence than he feels. But he has to be right about this, has to be, or else he’s been hallucinating, has been letting his paranoia get the best of him already, again, and if that’s going to be the case, maybe Tommy really would be better off without him there, because he refuses to go down that same road now that he knows where it leads.

(even though part of him still yearns for it, yearns to go to hell and take everything with him)

(it was something he said to Tommy, in that moment when the veil between worlds was thin and he could see his brother there, plain as day, sitting on that bench with Tubbo at his side, and Tommy said Dream could bring him back and he said no fucking thank you and also that)

“Aw, you been pining for me, Wilbur?” someone says, and it all falls into place.

(he wasn’t alone. he wasn’t alone in the void. as much as he might have liked to be, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. he wasn’t alone. not then, and not)

He pivots, and uses the momentum to send his fist right into Schlatt’s stupid, smug face.

And it passes right though him. It’s a strange sensation, one that sends sparks of electricity up his arm and feels a bit like dozens of tiny firecrackers are going off. For a split second, there is a bit of resistance, and then a give that sends him stumbling forward, off balance.

“Did that make you feel better?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, stepping back. “What the fuck are you—what are you wearing?”

Wilbur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Schlatt wear anything but his signature suit and tie. Not since they were young, anyway, young and stupid and ready to take on the world,

(for each other, and where did that fall through?)

so painfully ignorant of everything to come. But the Schlatt in front of him is not the Schlatt he knows, not quite, is off in so many subtle ways and one big one. His pallor is grey, his horns chipped and cracked, his hair mussed and disarrayed, but all of that is overshadowed by the oversized blue sweater, a horrible parody of Ghostbur’s yellow one, and honestly, Wilbur wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what it’s meant to be.

“What, you don’t like it?” Schlatt smiles, more a baring of teeth than anything else, and—his teeth didn’t use to be so pointy, right? “I think it’s a fashion statement. All the rage with ghosts these days.” He steps back, and the movement is wrong; it’s so obvious that his feet have no real traction on the ground, that he’s moving in the same way that Wilbur remembers Ghostbur doing, willing himself into the new space rather than working dead muscles.

(funny, though, that Schlatt would at least pretend to walk, would at least pretend at some semblance of normalcy. Ghostbur almost never did, was always content to float around and disregard the unease he caused, to hand out blue and avoid any confrontation that might make him uncomfortable. but then, Ghostbur was completely happy to be the way that he was)

“You’re an arsehole,” Wilbur grits out. “The fuck are you doing here?”

And just like that, the pretense is gone. Schlatt rises into the air, tilting forward, though he keeps his eyes level with Wilbur’s, scowling ferociously. He’s a bit transparent around the edges, Wilbur notes absently, a bit fuzzy, like he’s dissolving into the air bit by bit.

“You think I want to be?” Schlatt says. “You think I wanna be here, Wilbur, really? I had all the booze I could possibly want and none of the pitfalls, and now I’m here, in this shitty world with all the shitty people I never wanted to see again, and I can’t even fucking touch anything!”

His hand lashes out, and Wilbur flinches on instinct, but it passes through his shoulder harmlessly. There is the strange electric sensation again, but other than that, nothing.

“You think this is what I want?” he continues. “I’m fucking dead and I want to stay that way. None of this haunting bullshit. My business here is fucking finished. Over. Done. I don’t want to be here.” He pauses, and it’s for effect, because he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s just a dramatic arsehole. “And yet, whatever asshole dragged you back down here caught me too. I’m just as thrilled about it as you are, but I can’t figure out how to get back. So that’s a fucking, I don’t know. Fucking karma, maybe. How’ve you been?”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment. He starts laughing before he can stop himself, hysterical gusts, torn from him like someone is reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs out, and he doubles over, bracing himself against his knees.

“Oh my god,” he eventually manages. “I don’t wanna fucking be here either. This is so fucked.”

Schlatt is silent for a moment, and the only sound is the last of Wilbur’s laughter, dying down into desperate chuckles. It’s not funny, not funny at all, but it’s either laugh or have another breakdown, and he’s filled his break down quota for the hour.

“I figured,” Schlatt says, calmer now, quieter. He drifts back down so his feet at least appear to be touching the ground. “I figured, I knew you didn’t want to—fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, and once again, Wilbur is struck by the action. It’s for effect, or perhaps it’s just habit, but either way, the dead don’t need to breathe. Can’t, really, though they can go through the motions if they put the effort in.

“You’re the worst and I hate you,” he says, and there is absolutely no heat in it at all. “Why are you here?”

Schlatt looks at him incredulously. “I just said—”

“No, I mean here.” He gestures. “With me. Unless you have to be, or something like that.”

“Nah, I can walk away from you,” Schlatt says wryly. “Believe me, that’s the first thing I tried. But where the fuck else do you think I’m gonna go, Wilbur? You think I’ve got anybody waiting for me with open arms? That’s ridiculous.” He pauses. “Also, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can see me. I did a little tap dance routine for Technoblade earlier and got absolutely nothing, so.”

“What?”

“No, yeah, see? I can go invisible, like this, and hide from you,” Schlatt says, completely ignoring what his question was actually about, the bastard. And then, he vanishes, like he was never—wait. No, he’s still there, but Wilbur can only tell if he’s not looking directly at him. And even then, it’s just a faint shimmering, and an almost transparent splash of the color blue. “I can tell I’m invisible when I do that. But when I do this—” He reappears, his arms crossed— “no one else can see me. Except you, apparently. Make my fucking day, why don’t you.”

“Gladly,” he replies automatically. “Wait, why is that even a thing?”

“You’re asking me?” Schlatt demands. “How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who was a ghost for months, you should know how this works!”

“I really don’t,” he says. “And besides, Ghostbur wasn’t actually me. Just a fragment. A shadow.”

“Real poetic,” Schlatt mutters, and, well. Wilbur doesn’t have much to say to that.

They stand there in silence for a moment. Or rather, Wilbur stands, and Schlatt drifts about half an inch off the ground, the soles of his shoes brushing the grass. He briefly considers whether attempting to punch him in the face again would be worth it or not, but dismisses the idea. Dismisses it a lot more easily than he should, actually.

“I feel like I’m not as angry with you as I definitely should be,” he says.

“Well, I’m fucking pissed,” Schlatt says, and then, after a moment, adds, “Not so much at you, though. I mean, I am. But not more than I am at the general everything. Do you remember much of the—the you know?”

(darkness all around and a howling emptiness but so much better than the world so much more peaceful and after a while the void felt like an embrace, felt like coming home)

(Schlatt was loud and irritating and the clink of his whiskey glasses made him want to kill him all over again but it was a break from the monotony and it was nice, sometimes, to have someone to talk to, someone who understood if only a little, someone with whom he didn’t have to hide his shattered edges in favor of painting a prettier picture)

(empty and not and there is no death for the already-dead so the only thing to do is come to an understanding)

doesn’t, not really, only recalls a general sense of peace, the rest that he so craved, attained at least. And he knows that Schlatt was there, too, knows it, but while he remembers talking to Tommy, that one time, he can’t remember if he ever actually spoke to Schlatt. Evidence is pointing toward the affirmative, he thinks.

“Not much,” he says. “Do you?”

“I remember it was better than here,” Schlatt says. He kicks at the ground, and scowls when his foot won’t make contact with anything substantial. “I had all the booze I could’ve wanted. Sure, none of it was real, but that didn’t matter much. I’d kill to have a drink right now. Literally, I would murder someone.”

“Good luck with that,” he says.

“Shut the fuck your mouth.”

“I’m planning on seeing Dream,” he says, ignoring that. “After I find Tommy, anyway. I’ll make him tell me what he did to bring me back. And you, too, I suppose, assuming it was the same thing. Why are you a ghost when I’m not?”

“You keep asking me these questions like you expect me to know the answers,” Schlatt says. He levels his glare at him, but it doesn’t look very angry. Just tired. Wilbur knows the feeling. “Ask him to send me back, how about? I don’t want to fucking be here.”

His eyes slip shut. “Neither do I,” he says, and it’s more of a confession than it has any right to be. His tone matches Schlatt’s: tired, exhausted, weary, wrung out, sick of everything.

When he opens his eyes, Schlatt is gone. There is no sign of blue, no shimmer in the air. He’s really gone, then, but he assumes he’ll be back. For better or for worse.

He sighs, gathers himself, and resumes his march through the forest, looking for Tommy.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza #jschlatt #alivebur #glatt #/rp #cat writes fic #long post

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irwinkitten · 4 years

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feel like a monster | a.i

notes: told y’all i was writing again. i got inspired by ‘monster’ by skillet and it’s not the typical demon!ash we have seen previously. enjoy. Also I picture Lucifer being Tom Ellis’ from the tv series ‘Lucifer’. pairing: demon!ashton x witch!reader (genderless self-insert!) warnings: violence, swearing word count: 3.2k

donate to my ko-fi?

The first time you had met Ashton, he was fully unaware of your presence.

Eyes as black as night had roamed the small haunt that the local supernaturals frequented, free of any kind of glamour to appeal to the human prey. Most of the locals knew better than to step out without the glamour on, especially demons, but Ashton had kept his on when he stepped through the door, even with the wash of protective magic you had placed on the building.

“What’ll it be, sugar?” You finally asked him, his eyes unseeing as he muttered the word ‘whiskey’. You never took offence, because sometimes the creatures you encountered needed the time to come to terms with something that happened.

“On the house, don’t drown.” You commented, not even inciting a verbal response as you returned your attention back to one of your regular vampires, a charming smile on your lips as you carried on, the despondent demon lurking in the back of your mind.

The night had been a steady one for the bar, and the demon hardly moved. He wasn't interested when a fight broke out, he ignored the other demons that seemed to sidle up to him and then abandon him once they realised he wasn’t going to pander to their whims.

It hit three am when you finally sat in front of him having a stool behind the bar for this exact reason.

“How about you give me a name, and I’ll go knock on Hades’ door to see if he’s got your soul locked up.” This pulled him from the funk he’d fallen into, his eyes finally focusing and finding yours.

“No need. How long has it been?”

“You’ve been sittin’ there for at least seven hours, sugar. You sure you’re alright?” And it seemed to flip a switch in him, dark tousled hair finally coming to life as he groaned and let his head rest on the bar.

Like with all of your other creature patrons, you didn’t hesitate, ruffling his hair gently which had him pulling back in shock, making you smirk as his own fingers ran through the jet black locks before sighing.

“I really need to stop falling out of my skin.” He muttered and you laughed.

“It’s been a long time since I had a skinwalking demon inside of these walls.” You commented casually, feeling his eyes study you as you moved to clean part of the bar.

“There are others?” The curiosity in his tone seemed desperate, which surprised you.

“There were, then good old Lucifer decided that the creation was an abomination. How’d you escape the culling?”

“I didn’t know there was one? How long ago was it?” This had you confused. You’d heard through the grapevines before Lucifer himself had walked into your establishment. You’d been lucky to escape with your life that night.

“Merde, honey we’re talkin’ about five centuries ago. I’ve had this bar running for the last eight.” His face fell at your words, dismay crossing his features before his eyes closed and a sigh escaped him

“I’m barely four centuries old. How on earth did that freak mutation happen?” His words were all snark but you saw the way his shoulders slumped, how he seemed resigned to the defeat. But you frowned, chucking the rag at him, making him look up.

“None of that in this bar. If good ‘ole Lucy is up to his tricks again, then you’re around for a reason honey. Now, what’s your name, my lovely skinwalker?” And for the first time that night, he smiled.

“Ashton. My name’s Ashton.”

He became a regular from that day on. Unlike other demons who had assignments to take souls and cash in on debts, he never really did much.

The only thing you gleaned from Ashton was that he was only ever called for when there seemed to be something that was too good to be true. And more often than not, they were, which left him to do the dispatching.

On those days, he was sullen and silent, unwilling to even share the possible horrors he may have witnessed, even with your experienced eyes, the way his were haunted, part of you wished to never see it.

He became steady at your bar, a fixture that kept your own morale up when things were rough. He was always there to kick someone too rowdy out, and eventually he started staying til you’d locked up and apparated home.

“Hey Ash. New suit?” You’d called out in greeting as he arrived. You’d noticed that he’d started to experiment with his wardrobe more now that he started to gain confidence in his own skills.

“You ask me every time I’m wearing something different.” He grumbled, making you laugh as he took his spot at the bar, tugging off the suit jacket and resting it over the back of the stool.

“Because you’re finally showing an artistic flair with your clothes, sue me for noticing and pointing out they make you look good.” You fired back easily, continuing to set up for the rest of the day.

“Are we still swapping stories today then?” He asked, ignoring your previous comment as you slid his usual glass in front of him. You smiled in return.

“I love how you consider swapping stories of my relatively normal life something exciting.” He laughed at that.

“Hearing stories of domesticity is much more preferable to the ones of death. Let me have this one thing.” His plea with wide eyes was met with unimpressed ones, only for you to give way and crack a smile.

“It’s a good job that I like you then, not many people can get stories outta me. At least, not the ones of where I’m making a new spell in my own home surrounded by the green ferns and my familiar.” This brought a grin to his face.

“Like I said, hearing something so normal and simple, it makes me hopeful that there’s gonna be a day when I don’t get called in to death and destruction.” You felt your heart break for him a little bit.

Most of the demons who crossed your safe haven had long since settled into the death and destruction that surrounded them. A lot of them even welcomed it with open arms and gleeful smiles.

But not Ashton.

He’d practically rejected that side of him. It was only when he’d met you that he worked ways to accept it but not sink into it. He hung onto you like a lifeline and you gave him those stories of normality, if only to keep him grounded, especially on the worst days.

“I heard old Lucy has put out rumours of a skinwalker. What’s up with that?” You queried once you’d finished setting up the bar. His face took on a pinched look before sighing.

“I’m a skinwalker with control. I’ve seen the other demons, read the transcripts of the old skinwalkers. They, they lost their sanity towards the end. They sunk into themselves and had nothing to pull them back, nothing to keep them in the world we roam. It’s why I can’t lose control. So far I’ve kept it under lock and key, and yes it’s there, but as long as I don’t lose myself like they did, he won’t have a reason to wipe me out.”

“Good old Lucifer doesn’t need a reason, sugar. But I’m proud of you.” His posture changed ever so slightly, but the smile he gave you in return was one of the more honest smiles you’d ever seen on his face.

“I guess it’s gonna be me keeping my head down?” He finally muttered and you laughed, patting his cheek gently.

“That and some luck, but you got me on your side, so you’ve got enough to see you through my favourite skinwalking demon.”

But like many things, the luck had run out for both of you.

Lucifer was sat on the lounge sofa you’d had moved into the VIP section, his casual demeanour betraying the crackling energy that you could feel.

“Most demons give me the time to open the damn bar, your highness.” Even though your age had nothing on Lucifer, you were one of the braver souls who knocked him down, reminding him that you were never one to bend over backwards.

“Unfortunately for you, witch, the bar won’t be opening today. See, there’s been a rumour. A rumour that you’ve been harbouring a skinwalker.” Ice ran through your veins as your stomach dropped.

But you kept yourself as calm as you could, a game you’d played far too many times before.

“Tell me, Lucifer. Why would you be interested in a skinwalker when you destroyed them over five centuries ago. I don’t need to remind you that you came to gloat that day.” The anger was easy to display, the bitterness in your voice telling him exactly what you thought of his choice.

“Ah, but this skinwalker is going rogue.”

“And so I’m harbouring them? Tell me, Lucy, do demons get to die like humans do, or do you just turn into ash?” You felt the burning of the chains before you even had time to react, your breath being stolen as the burning metal wrapped around your body.

Chains draped across your face, and apart from the low hiss of pain, you did nothing more.

“You’re lucky I don’t do what would be considered normal, witch.”

“Trust me, your demons will turn on you quicker when they find out exactly who is threatening their safe haven. How will you cope when every demon is on my side?” You could see the way he twitched at the possible threat, the chains getting tighter in response.

“Then if I kill you and blame it on the skinwalker, they’ll go after them.” The taunt was enough as you felt the wards shift and you realised it was Ashton.

Part of you wanted to scream, to warn him. But your voice was trapped, barely able to take in a breath as Lucifer stood from his spot, curling his finger so that the chains yanked forward, bringing you to your knees.

“I must confess that I feel like a monster doing this. But let it be a lesson for generations who try to meddle in affairs that aren’t theirs to touch.” You could only close your eyes as he raised his hand, the shift having already started as the fingers elongated and the nails grew into claws.

“Your confession will never erase what you’ll do. May the creatures of the darkness know who tried this day, to strip my life and make me pay. May they rebel and cast out, those souls so sure and cast out this monster forever more.” It wasn’t a full spell, but the intent behind the words were enough as a raging roar ripped through the building.

But it wasn’t in front of you like you’d anticipated.

Your eyes snapped open to see something hit Lucifer and throw him across the room.

“Unbind them now.” To your shock, it was Ashton, his skin practically glowing as he towered over you, his stance in a crouch.

“For what, skinwalker? You’re only going to die before them.”

You watched in awe as Ashton seemed to shift, almost like his mind had sunk into base instincts and for the first time in your life, you felt a sliver of fear. But surprisingly enough, it wasn’t towards Ashton. No, it was towards Lucifer who had shifted forms with a look of fury on his face.

“You won’t touch them.” There was a laugh that rooted him to the spot, and you couldn’t stop the yell of agony as you felt yourself hoisted up, desperately trying to cut the feeling of pain off, the agony searing and exhausting.

“Want a bet, skinwalker?” The deep cadence of Lucifer’s voice sent the thrill of fear, but Ashton didn’t hesitate as he launched at the self proclaimed king of hell, no words being spoken but guttural snarls instead.

You tried to watch, but you could see the black dots in your vision. But you struggled for each breath, watching as Lucifer seemed to toss him like a rag doll.

You were dimly aware of a sound that shook the walls as you blacked out, a silent prayer that if you were to be sent on to the afterlife, that Ashton would be granted one mercy to be with you at least.

“Fuck, why is it when I need a witch, the one I want isn’t available.” Your head was fuzzy, pain rocketing around your body as you heard chains clink together.

You couldn’t pull any energy to speak even a single word before the fuzziness swept you under, drowning you from the pain that you were in.

“I can sense you.” A different voice startled you and your head shot up from where you were lay, shock colouring your features. “Death looks good on you.”

You turned to the voice and felt your insides drop at the sight of Hades. Unlike Lucifer, those who knew, knew that Hades ruled the underworld.

“Are you playing as Hades or your alter?” You finally asked and he laughed, stepping from the shadow that had hidden his features.

Pale skin with vibrant green eyes. He gave you the kind of smile that he only gave Persephone.

“It’s my alter form today. Figured you’d seen enough already.” He countered with ease, holding his hand out to you. You took it willingly, allowing him to pull you up. In his alter form, he’d named himself Michael. He had soft features that looked welcoming ‘to not scare the children sent his way’, was his excuse. But it was nice to see familiarity.

“How dead am I?”

“Not as dead as you should be. Since Lucifer used the death chains on you, I have more leeway than he thought, the little upstart.” You blanched at his words.

“He used the death chains? But, that-”

“Should’ve sent you to my realm almost immediately, or at least indefinitely when you lost consciousness.. But your little spell blocked the chains from doing what they do best. Not to mention my skinwalker nearly taking his own life getting those things off you.” Michael explained as he guided you around the forested area. You realised this must have been his wife’s work.

“Wait, your skinwalker? Is that-” Michael cut you off.

“Is that why Lucifer wiped them to extinction? No. His first batch had never found their grounding. Never succeeded in tying their humanity down. But Ashton was different. So I created him.”

“What happens now?” His smirk bore the arrogance of a god and it took everything to stop yourself from punching him. You’d learned the hard way not to punch a god, they never bruised and never took well to being hit by what they considered a mortal.

“Take care of my skinwalker. And tell him that he holds the crown in title for now. I’ll be along to make it official in the next day or so. Gotta make sure his royal partner kick-starts their recovery.”

Before you could fully process the information, you felt the world spin around you once more, going black.

The blissful pain free state you had been in slowly morphed as the pain seemed to wrap you tightly until you couldn’t breathe, only for your lungs to pull in the much needed air.

“Oh thank fuck.” Was heard above you, but your eyes were too heavy to try and open, your body lethargic and almost lead like to try and reassure the person above you.

When you next came around, the pain was dulled. There was a slow and steady beep that had you turning your head and you stopped yourself from groaning.

“Please tell me I’m not in a standard hospital.” The mutter was scratchy and quiet.

“You forget what we’ve been building this hospital for a few years now. This is one for all kinds of creatures. No regular humans in sight.” The voice made you jump, turning to see Ashton sat next to you, his hair dishevelled and eyes tired as he took you in.

“You’re alive.” His lips curved into a small smile at your whispered words.

“More like we’re alive.” He corrected and you could feel a tear fall from the corner of your eye, lifting a hand up to his face. He was quick to scoot closer, your fingertips feeling his skin and you felt the dam burst.

You were both alive.

He didn’t hesitate to rest his hand over yours, keeping it against his face as you cried, but there was understanding in his eyes as you processed everything, Michael’s words finally ringing back to you as you slowly calmed down.

He was here with you, and even though you’d been toying with the idea, you’d never been so sure of telling him how you felt. Once you’d gathered your bearings, before he could start talking, you cut him off quickly.

“So, king of hell, fancy going on a date with me when I’m out of here?” As much as you wanted to be sentimental with Ashton, your emotions were frayed enough as it was. This was the last thing you needed to add to it. And watching Ashton’s face as he processed your words was certainly worth it.

“A date, with me?” He clarified, tone mystified and dumbfounded. You grinned.

“Of course. Give me a week before I get to the sentimentalities, but I’m almost certain I’ve been in love with you for the last year. Hades was nice enough to point that out, since you can’t lie to a god.”

“Hades? What?” You took pity on Ashton in that moment.

“Instead of dying immediately, I was trapped, but in Hades’ part of the underworld. He explained that you were his skinwalker, connected to your humanity. He could see my feelings for you as clear as daylight. I might as well try to-” Your words were cut off with his lips on yours, the feeling of them causing you to smile against his lips, breaking the kiss.

“I’m not about to get hexed, am I?” He breathed and you laughed, his lips moving to your forehead before he sat back.

“Not in a million years. So you think about actually coming with me now when I get out of here?” His smile spoke the thousands of words he wanted to say, but simply settled for squeezing your hand gently.

“I think it’s about time I moved in, huh?”

One of the healers seemed to come in for that moment and you allowed her to fuss over you as Ashton settled back in the chair, a peaceful silence sweeping over the two of you. Compared to your last memory of the loud beast-like roars, the peace was welcomed and enjoyed, Ashton’s slow breathing accompanying the steady beep of your monitor that you knew would be gone by the end of the day.

The peace was something you appreciated as you felt Ashton take your hand once the healer had left, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your skin. It was only when he jolted upright his face a picture of alarm as he stared at you before breathing,

“What do you mean ‘king of hell’?”

taglist: @sexgodashton, @goth5sos, @malumsmermaid, @empathycth, @wildflowergrae, @calpops, @rosecolouredash, @cakesunflower, @loveroflrh, @clockwork124, @cal-puddies, @stellar5sosrecs, @ashtoniwir , @cthwldflwr, @cthla, @calmlftv, @spicycal, @liketheydidwithyou, @sc0ttish-wildfl0wer, @bluehairedtracii, @drummerboy794, @feliznavidaddycal, @ukulelecal, @thecurlsofgod, @converse-luke, @madbomb, @ccnicole02, @youngblood199456, @megz1985, @lukesidentitycrisis, @snapback-irwie, @neonweeknds, @666yourwitchyfriend666, @cashtonasfuck, @ashtaway, @conquerwhatliesahead92, @itjustkindahappenedreally, @kchillout, @damselindistressanu, @colormekaykay, @findingliam-o, @sublimehood, @singledadharrington, @sugarcoated-pain, @singt0mecalum, @calumspeachy, @colourfulcalum, @lostincalum, @burncrashbromance, @asht0ns-world, @flusteredcliffo, @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave, @fangirl-everythang, @lashtonswildflower, @lashtondaddies, @calumssunshine, @ambskiwi, @abundant-stars, @myescapefromthislife, @lmao5sosimagines, @beyoncesdragon, @jae-writes-fanfiction, @cxddlyash, @tresfandom, @niallisworld, @lietomevalntyn, @babylon-corgis, @monochrome44, @behind-my-hazeleyes27, @lyllibug, @bloodmoonashton, @ghostofmashton, @summerellaz, @a-little-less-sixteen, @cashworthy, @smokeinherlungs, @longlastingdaydream, @h0tsos, @sadistmichael, @sugar-nico, @sunnysidesblog, @angel-cal, @samros95, @maluminspace, @lukeinblue, @britnicole11, @gigglyirwin, @everyscarisahealingplace, @loverofcashton, @iovehemmings, @g-l-pierce, @jannimoeller3, @wildmichaelflower, @lukeskisses, @youngbloodchild, @abb-lan-5sos, @calumsbub, @flameraine, @here-for-the-uproars, @mateisit-balsamic, @ilovelukey, @castaway-cashton, @musiclover1263, @alloutofcashton, @tobefalling, @sarahshepherdblog, @cassie-sos, @possesedperson, @treatallwithkindness, @wonderlandiswhereitsatyo, @pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles, @ashtonlrwin,

if u wanna be added to my taglist just hmu!

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msraven929 · 4 years

Text

**** Another of my TOG minifics. Joe x Nicky ****

Nicky woke suddenly, unsure what had pulled him out of sleep. It was still dark outside and he hadn't had a nightmare. Then it registered that the bed behind him was cold and empty.

Over the past few weeks—after Merrick and Booker and Copley—Nicky had only fleetingly noticed that Joe had begun separating himself. He stayed back when they walked and kept out of conversations unless directly addressed. Nicky had been so distracted by Andy and Nile that he let himself believe Joe was only taking extra time to adjust to having Nile with them. Now, Nicky was starting to realize his mistake.

Joe was so outwardly explosive in his joy and his anger that it was easy to forget how deeply his emotions truly ran. Nicky was more pragmatic and able to channel his negative thoughts to something useful, like caring for Andy or training Nile. Joe tended to internalize and often allowed his emotions to swirl into a dark maelstrom that was difficult to escape without help.

Nicky stayed in bed for another minute, but the house remained still and quiet. He slipped out from under the blankets and out of the bedroom. He passed the empty bathroom as he walked through the hall, then down the stairs into the small living room. The remnants of the fire they'd lit in the fireplace provided just enough light for Nicky to see Joe's sketchbook sitting open in front of the hearth. He stepped closer to crouch over the book and flipped through several pages, all of them blank. Joe never sketched when he was upset, unwilling to bring his darkest thoughts onto the paper.

The barest sound reached Nicky's ears and drew his attention to the far corner of the room. He stood and turned on the small lamp, unwilling to have this conversation in the dark. Nicky mirrored Joe's sitting position, their backs to the wall and knees up for their wrists to rest on. Nicky sat close enough so that their sides touched, but was still able to turn and watch Joe's face. Joe continued to stare, unseeing, in front of him.

"Will you tell me what's troubling you?" Nicky asked.

Joe took a long breath that sounded painful and constricted to Nicky.

"I'm afraid," Joe answered.

"What of?"

"Of loving you so deeply. Of what I'd become if I lost that love."

The words and the pang it sent through Nicky's heart were both familiar and unexpected. It had been so long since either of them had been conflicted about their love.

"Why?" Nicky prodded.

"Booker—" Joe choked on the word and his face twisted in pain. For a moment, Nicky wished that Booker were here so he could see the devastation his betrayal was still causing.

"We cannot understand what drove Booker to do what he did," Nicky reasoned calmly.

"But I can. I can understand because I am no different than Booker."

"No," Nicky replied with vehemence. "I don't believe that despite what you've convinced yourself to think."

"If you hadn't woken from that last shot—"

"If you lost me, you would suffer and never be the same," Nicky conceded, "but you would not turn to cruelty or sacrifice the others."

"How do you know?"

"You forget that my love for you runs just as deep. I know you better than I know myself. I know your heart. I know that you were the first to offer your hand to me in peace. You were also the first to offer me your friendship and then your love. After all the bad we have seen in our lives, I watch you, time and again, lead first with gentleness and I love you more each day because of it."

Joe shook his head. "I am also capable of brutality."

"Yes. So am I. So is Andy. There is always some brutality in fighting. But we have always tried to do some good with what we fought for. That does not make us evil or cruel."

"And Booker?"

Nicky sighed because he hadn't spent any energy trying to understand Booker's actions.

"I cannot explain Booker," Nicky replied honestly.

"He saw our love as salt to his open wounds."

"That is his failing, not ours. We never flaunted ourselves and I will not denounce you to soothe his selfish heart."

Joe finally looked at Nicky, eyes wide with surprise. "You're angry."

"Of course I'm angry. I watched you be stabbed, tortured, and killed several times in that lab. Did you think I wasn't?"

"You didn't act as if…"

"I didn't want to add to Andy's conflict and I've never shown my emotions as outwardly as you. You... do know I love you?" Nicky hated how the end was posed as a question.

"I never doubt it," Joe answered sincerely. He reached out to take Nicky's hand and Nicky's shoulders sagged with relief at the action.

"Then never doubt that your pain won't leave me unaffected." Nicky was beginning to see what had started Joe down this path of self doubt. "I'm sorry if you thought you were alone in your anger. Does it help knowing I feel the same?"

"Yes. I… I thought maybe I was wrong to be angry."

"We have every right to be angry. No matter his reasoning or his pain, there is no excuse for Booker's betrayal. He knew neither of us were looking for death, even if he thought Andy was."

Joe nodded and then sighed. "I want to understand how Booker could do what he did."

"We may never understand."

"I understand his despair. I felt it in that moment before you woke from that bullet."

"But knowing you could feel the same does not make you a reflection of Booker's failings."

"I'm not as sure."

Nicky turned to face Joe fully and gripped Joe's hand in both of his. "I do not lie to you. Do you believe me when I tell you that I've seen nothing in our long lives together that makes me think you're like Booker? And most definitely not like Merrick or Keane or any of the other truly cruel men we've known?"

"I believe you."

"Are you still afraid?"

"Yes. I am."

"I am too," Nicky confessed. "Not of our love, never that. If I lost you… I am most afraid of forgetting, in my grief, of what it feels like to be loved by you."

Joe looked at Nicky as if the thought had never occurred to him. Their fears were different, but rooted in the same place, in the same love. Nicky was confident that neither of them would be willing to discard their love just to keep the fear at bay.

"As always, we are two sides of the same coin," Nicky said and Joe smiled at the sentiment. "It also seems that we still have things to learn after all our years together. I should have voiced my own fears and anger. You are never alone, my love."

"I'm sorry for worrying you."

"I'm sorry for forgetting how deeply you take things within yourself. I've been neglecting you."

Joe shook his head. "The others needed you and it helps you to care for them."

Nicky smiled at Joe's understanding and leaned forward to give his cheek a kiss. "That is no excuse. However, it is repairable. You should get cleaned up while I pack our things."

"Are we switching safehouses?" Joe asked as they both stood. Dawn was just starting to break outside.

"No. You and I are going away for a bit."

"But—"

Nicky kissed Joe to stop whatever he was about to say. "We both need it. Andy is fine. Nile is good for her. They're safe here. We won't go too far or be gone for too long."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm very sure." Nicky hadn't realized how much he wanted time to themselves until he'd said it. He'd been neglecting himself as much as he had Joe.

Joe smiled and leaned forward to give Nicky a lingering kiss before he moved away.

They were close enough to head to the sea, Nicky decided as he watched Joe pick up his neglected sketchbook and head upstairs. Both of them had been born near a coast and the water still had a way of lifting their spirits. Even if Nicky couldn't find them a boat to rent, he'd find a house near enough to the shore that they could let the sounds and smells of the water soothe their souls.

Andy would understand Joe and Nicky's need to be on their own. Nile had been helping Andy find new life, but Nicky and Joe needed time to reaffirm their faith in themselves and each other. Nicky and Joe would return in a few weeks with Joe's sketchbook full of pictures—the small cabin with a leaky roof, the sailboat they'd rented for a few days, a family of stray cats, the view out their bedroom window, and a multitude of Nicky.

Back together, the four of them would cement their friendship and find their way to a new peace.

#the old guard #joe x nicky #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #minific #my fic #immortal husbands #x-posted to AO3

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juriyuna · 3 years

Note

character ask meme: sayaka and mami? <3

Sticking this under a read more, since it's pretty long!

Sayaka:

favorite thing about them: I really love how multifaceted and believable her character is. She's got a good head on her shoulders and always tries to do the right thing, but she still makes bad decisions, and doesn't know how to cope with the fallout. To me, she's a very relatable, normal teenage girl, and I like that a lot.

least favorite thing about them: uuuAAAAAAAGH I KNOW YOU'RE 14 BUT PLEASE LET MADOKA HELP YOU

favorite line: "I was stupid... so stupid." is iconic. This is, like, the Madoka Magica line of all Madoka Magica lines.

brOTP: sayamado is SO cute; i cry ;_; (also I love that Madoka says one of her hobbies is "making bad jokes with Sayaka-chan" lol)

OTP: Kyousaya!! What a good ship..... it's got both the "enemies to friends to lovers" story and "bros being bros" energy.

nOTP: I can't say I like Kyousuke/Sayaka that much :'V

random headcanon: Since she heals so fast, I headcanon that her fighting style is pretty reckless. She does her best to keep her soul gem safe, but she can tank attacks so well that she doesn't worry too much about getting hit. (Poor Madoka and Mami both wish she'd be more careful)

unpopular opinion: I always kinda felt like... part of what made her fall into despair was realizing that she didn't love Kyousuke in the way that she thought she did. There were a bunch of other factors too, of course, but-- if she made a contract partly out of what she thought was a crush, and then realized that what she really wanted was to be seen as a hero, she would've felt so, so guilty about regretting her wish.

Thinking "maybe I shouldn't have made a contract" would make her feel horrible. It's not like she wants Kyousuke to be in the hospital. She wanted him to get better. But the real reason she made her wish was so that people would see her as a hero like how she saw Mami. It was a selfish mistake, but then, if she hadn't made her wish, Kyousuke's arm never would've healed. And so it cycles back in on itself like that and just makes her feel worse and worse...

song i associate with them: "Whisper" - Evanescence

catch me as i fall say you're here and it's all over now speaking to the atmosphere no one's here and i fall into myself this truth drives me into madness i know i can stop the pain if i will it all away if i will it all away

favorite picture of them: I don't know if I can choose! I've seen a lot of really amazing art of Sayaka over the years. ;o;

Mami:

favorite thing about them: I like that even though she seems like the "kind senpai" character (and she is), she also has a bit of a mean streak. She had Mitakihara on lockdown for witch-hunting (Kyubey commented that other girls stayed away because it was Mami's turf), and tried to drive Homura out of her territory. Her passive-aggressiveness is something that I don't see used very often in fanworks.

least favorite thing about them: This isn't Mami's fault, but I'm kinda sad that she gets reduced to head jokes so often in the fandom, even after 10 years...

favorite line: "The round cake goes 'round in circles. Is the cake Akemi-san?" is SUCH a burn, holy shit lol

brOTP: Platonic Kyouko+Mami warms my heart. They both lost their families, and now they've found a new family in each other and all of their friends... ;;

OTP: In canon, homumami is probably my favorite. They hate each other but love each other at the same time, and neither of them is good at being honest... what a perfect disaster. I also like future!AU maminagi where they're both adults, though-- it makes for cute domestic fluff.

nOTP: i get why kyubey/mami exists but i wish i could unsee some of the art i've seen

random headcanon: She has family in Italy. Her aunt heard about what happened to her parents, and sends her money each month to pay for rent, groceries, and things like that. (The apartment used to belong to Mami's parents, but since they died, Mami lives there alone now.)

unpopular opinion: I don't ship her and Kyouko romantically. It seems to be the most popular Mami ship, but for some reason I have a hard time picturing it?

song i associate with them: "Have You Got It In You?" - Imogen Heap

it takes a lot to be always on form; it takes a lot or maybe not, all the time, all i've got maybe not been one of those days safety first, don't push-- what's the hurry? one nerve remaining, waiting on one look have you got it? have you got it in you?

favorite picture of them: Bebe's crayon drawing of Mami fills me with so much joy

#asks #hc post #miki sayaka #tomoe mami

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pleasereadmycrap · 4 years

Text

Time Gone By II

Pairing: Steve x Reader, Bucky x Reader

“You lied to me,” Steve huffed out as he stormed up to the bar.

“What?” Natasha asked, taken off guard by Steve's question and his sudden appearance. His face was red and puffy, and his eyes were glassy.

“She’s with him.”

“It wasn’t my place to tell you.”

“No, you just didn’t want to tell me!”

“Steve, calm down!” Nat said as she reached what was meant to be a soothing hand across the bar to rest it on his shoulder, but he just shook it off.

The party was in full bloom around them. People were streaming around them decked out in all their finery. It was like a perverted kind of last rights. They all knew of what was to come, but at least they could cover it up with makeup and pretty clothes for the night in an attempt to forget themselves.

Steve started to cry softly, a tear or two racing down his cheeks at a time. Natasha took notice, and poured him a drink before sliding it across the bar to him. He drank the entire thing in one swig without even wincing. He wasn’t even focused enough to feel it.

“You’ll be okay.”

“And what if I won’t? She was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I left her. Now, I have to watch her gallivanting around with my best friend!”

“They hardly gallivant.” Natasha joked.

“Nat!”

“What? You said it yourself; you left her. Now, get over it.”

“Shouldn’t you be a little more sympathetic?”

“I’m Russian. And you’re a soldier. Hell, you’re not even that. You’re a super soldier, and now you’re crying into your glass over a woman. You’ve seen some of life’s worst atrocities. You saw firsthand what Nazis did to people. You’ve fought the worst of the worst. You’ve seen and committed war crimes. You’ve been through a hell of a lot worse than a bad breakup, and you’re acting like a child. It’s pathetic, especially considering that you did this to yourself.”

“So you hate me now too?”

“I said that I had forgiven you, not that I wasn’t still mad.”

“Really, Nat? We’re gonna be fighting on the same team the day after next,” Steve said in his old team leader voice he used to order his fellow teammates around. He could see a slight shift in Natasha when she heard it. She froze and her eyes grew impossibly colder.

“I can bench my feelings. The question is can you?”

“I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“See you tomorrow, Nat.”

When he reached his room, he sat on the bed for a while. Steve didn’t have the energy to take his suit off, so he just sat there, shoes still on and everything. He hadn’t even loosened his tie. He just stared out the window with unseeing eyes.

Everything that you had said was true. He had left, and he couldn’t change that, but he thought that you might have waited for him. It was a stupid notion, and he knew that, but somewhere along the way he got so wrapped up in being Captain America that he forgot to be Steve Rogers. He thought that you would wait around the way that his adoring public always did. Looking back on it, he had been neglectful, and not just when he left. Maybe you were better off with Bucky, but he couldn’t believe that. The two of you were soulmates. Maybe he didn’t treat you like it, but you were his everything.

He should just leave again after the battle. It was obvious that nobody around here needed or wanted him there. Hell, not even Sharon wanted him around anymore. He had no place to go.

He finally had the strength to ask the AI in his room to look up your file. Your smiling face showed up, projected on the window, so different than the one that he had seen tonight. It was the picture from your first day working at SHIELD. You were the handler for the Avengers. Prior to that you had done the same for the Navy SEALS. You had also graduated from Stanford, top of your class, with a degree in International Relations. Needless to say, you were qualified for the job. When Steve scrolled further down on your career achievements, he was confused. When had you become an official member of the Avengers? Training records were linked underneath, and he clicked on them. It read Combat Agent- trained by Natasha Romanoff. He scrolled down further and clicked on one of your training videos. You were sparring with Bucky, and it was clear that he wasn’t pulling his punches. Steve was surprised at how hard he was attacking you, and winced, terrified that you would be hurt. To be fair, you were getting in some good hits of your own. Suddenly, Bucky’s legs were undefended, forgotten in his efforts to defend himself from you, and you swept them out from under him. You pinned him to the floor, the two of you giggling madly in the video. You captured his lips in a passionate kiss right before the video cut off.

That image would be burned into his brain forever. He couldn’t describe the way that it hurt him to see that. If he could take it all back he would. Sometimes he wished that he was just a kid in Brooklyn again, before the serum, and the ice, and the Avengers.

Hell, even that seemed like so long ago. How many more wormholes had torn open the sky since that first one in New York so long ago. Back then it was just the six of them. Now, it seemed like the Avengers were no longer a team, but an army. You were just the latest.

He figured that although the party had ended, Nat would still be awake. She could never sleep easily. Although he was probably the last person she wanted to see right now, he needed to speak to her.

He walked down the hallway, after getting directions to her room, and knocked on her door quietly, in case she was asleep.

“Steve?” Natasha asked as she opened her door.

“When did you start training Y/N?”

“What?”

“I saw that she’s a ‘combat agent’ now,” he said, placing air quotes around the words.

“She is, and she earned that position,”Nat replied coldly.

“When?”

“Right after you left. She was upset, and she wanted to learn. Who was I to turn her down? Every woman has a right to learn to protect herself.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t have you to protect her anymore.”

“Is she going to be fighting the day after next?” Steve asked with increasing concern.

“She’ll stay in the palace and protect Shuri and the labs.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Her safety isn’t your concern, is it?”

“Dammit, Nat, of course I care about her safety!”

“So you cared about protecting her from halfway across the world?”

“Why does everybody have to keep bringing that up?”

“Because it showed your true priorities Steve, and they sure as hell aren’t us. Her safety is no longer your job. It’s Barnes’, and he’s more than up to the task because unlike some people he won’t just leave her,” Nat spat at him coldly.

“Can we just talk, Nat?”

“Come inside. I’ll pour us both a drink.”

Steve walked into Nat’s room and sat on her bed as she poured them both heaping glasses of vodka. Her movements were reserved and sharp, not the relaxed way they used to be when Natasha trusted him. She handed him the glass and folded herself tightly into the armchair across from the bed. Steve took a sip of his drink and gagged.

“You drink this swill straight?”

“I’m Russian,” she said, her explanation for everything. “What did you want to talk about?”

“You understand why I did it right?”

“I don’t know. I know you loved Peggy, but I couldn’t imagine leaving the only family I’ve known to chase after some figment of the past. So I’ll give you the chance to explain it to me.”

“When things were tough or I felt lost, I turned to her. She was my rock, the only thing that made sense to me in these uncertain times. She was the only thing that felt real anymore, so to think that I knew nothing about her, that I didn’t even know Sharon was her niece… it broke me.”

“That sucks, but you could’ve stayed. You could’ve talked to us. Why did you have to follow her?”

“I needed answers,” he said simply in response.

“Did you get any?”

“More questions than answers. You know, she discovered the Red Room. Peggy was the first to put it on SHIELD’s radar.”

“I know.”

“She knew a girl like you, but she was a little harder to reform, Dorothy Underwood.”

“Known as one of the program’s failures. Although, I suppose, so am I. Only the least skilled would ever be caught by SHIELD.”

“Did you ever get the chance to meet her?”

“Once. Fury didn’t like that Clint had brought back a stray until Peggy Carter stormed into the room. She was the one who demanded that I have a position at SHIELD. Without her, I wouldn’t have this family or this life.”

“Just another thing that I never knew about her.”

“There will always be some mystery about her. If there wasn’t she wouldn’t really be Peggy, would she, if that even was her real name?”

“Do you think that everybody will forgive me?” Steve asked as he looked up from his lap with fear etched in his eyes.

“I don’t know. You were fighting with Tony when you dropped everything, and then you just left your only remaining friends.”

“I can’t get her back, can I?” Steve asked, staring down at the glass in his hands.

“I honestly don’t know, but I don’t think you’d be right to try.”

“What are they like together? Y/N and Bucky?”

“He’s good to her, treats her the way she ought to be treated. She was shattered when you left, wouldn't talk, wouldn’t eat, nothing. He really picked up the pieces, put her back together. She’s his everything, now. I mean, you should see the way that he looks at her, like she hung the moon or something, and she’s good for him too. You know, he rarely has panic attacks anymore.”

“I’m happy for them,” Steve said with tears in his eyes.

“Steve-“

“No, I am really. It’s fine. They’re better off without me,” he said before racing out of the room.

He ran back into his own apartment, and collapsed onto his bed before sobbing into his pillow like a little boy. He fell asleep like that.

…

Steve woke up early the next morning, his face stiff with dried tears. Breakfast was already waiting outside his door. It was meager, just a bagel and some sausage, but it was to be expected. Today would be spent preparing for the battle tomorrow. Steve ate his breakfast quickly, and went for a brief run around the palace.

He stopped after a while and found a low wall to sit on. He watched the sun rise over the citadel. He thought back to last night and all that Nat had said. Bucky was better for you, and you two would be happy together. He had to give up. Resigned to his decision, he started to jog back towards the entrance to the palace. He knew that he had to apologize for his actions last night, and he was too impatient to wait until after he showered, so he jogged up to your room and knocked on the door hesitantly.

Hey,” he said nervously as the door swung open to see you standing behind it, still wearing your pajamas and a tired expression on your face. The one thing that hadn’t changed evidently was your reliance on coffee.

“What are you doing here, Steve?”

“I wanted to apologize for last night.”

“Ok.”

“I heard that you're an official part of the Avengers now. Congratulations.”

“Hey doll, who’s at the door?” Bucky called out as he entered the room, having just showered and wearing nothing but a towel. “Oh, hey Steve.”

“Oh, so you and Bucky are living together? That’s uh… that’s… you know, that’s just really great. Good for you two.”

“I don’t remember asking for your approval. What do you really want?”

“I told you,” he stammered quietly as Bucky came to stand beside you at the door, his features contorted with interest. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Well, you’ve done that,” you said before closing the door in his face.

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papermonkeyism · 4 years

Note

Hi, I just recently got into dinosaurs and I'm wondering if you have any good book reccommendations? It would be a big bonus if they were in Finnish, somehow I only keep finding childrens' books if I don't search for them in English :/

Oh, dude, wish I knew! Dinosaurs kinda have an image problem, where they're seen either as kids' stuff or blood thirsty awesomesaur movie monster with very little between. The stuff that gets selected to be translated into Finnish often just emphasize the divide, as most what I see are just kids books and nothing else.

(I wrote my Bachelor's thesis on the subject, this is a huge annoyance for me personally, and a big part on why I keep drawing dinosaurs. They deserve better!)

Anyway, I did dig into my own book shelf, so here's a selection of... I don't know, adequate?

David Lambert: The Ultimate Dinosaur

I got this book as a birthday present when I was 8, and it's still one of my absolute favourites. The illustrations are pretty, and used to be quite state of the art at the time, and the info is easy to follow.

Almost thirty years out of date by now, so nearly everything would require further research if used as a reference. Like this is from the time when "some dinosaurs might have even had feathers!" was a groundbreaking new idea!

For some reason I can't seem to find the original English title of this book, but eh.

Pretty okay for a kids' book, although it's one of those that uses "dinosaur" in the title to mean "everything prehistoric from fucken trilobites to sloths"

Art quality varies a lot, from beautiful photographs to pretty good drawings to "CG blob"

Darren Naish: The Great Dinosaur Discoveries

The book talks about dinosaurs through specific fossils and discoveries made about them

Art quality varies some, but nothing too horrible! (honestly not even bad, I just have opinions)

Only one decade out of date! Deinocheirus is still only the pair of arms, and I remember getting the book it, like, JUST missed the discovery of dinosaur fossils that preserved pigment cells.

Don't think this one has been translated to Finnish, but it was on my pile of source material when I did my thesis.

The text, as far as I remember, was pretty good. The art is consistent and pretty okay as well!

Been a while since I've read it, but I do remember it being a pretty okay read.

My newest book so far. I haven't actually read it yet, but from what I can see by browsing through, I do got a pretty good impression!

Okay so I know the cover art is kinda on the side of CG blob awesomesaur*, but the actual illustrations are of much higher quality! It is heavier on the text than on the pictures, but that's because it's not aimed at kids.

I should really get around to reading it, it's the most up to date thing I have. It has Anchiornis (the first dinosaur to have it's entire coloration mapped)! And a picture of that one Psittacosaurus fossil with the tail quills!

*(big theropod "roaring" with open mouth, all teeth visible and those clearly visible, pink muscle flaps at the corners of the mouth is a Trope that's hard to unsee. Imagine if all books about mammals only had lions/wolves/bears/rottweilers doing that open mouther all-teeth-visible roar pose, but I digress)

Also I know this isn't strictly dinosaurs, but

Pterosaurs are close cousins of dinosaurs, and this baby here is THE best book about them I have ever seen, and I wanted to give it a plug.

Pterosaurs deserve more love! They are weird, and bizarre and amazing and I love them so, so very much!

The book is quite text heavy and I haven't read all of it, but the illustrations are pretty and up-to-date, and it is seriously a TRAGEDY that these animals aren't more popular.

But honestly? Wikipedia. Okay, I'm not sure on the Finnish side of Wikipedia, but the English one is pretty much the best place to find up to date info on dinosaurs.

A big problem with dinosaurs is that you can't just go and snap a bunch of photos, except for birds of course (who are a group of feathered maniraptoran theropods), so illustrating a full book would get really expensive really fast, and finding an artist who's up to date with the current knowledge, available for the project AND affordable is kinda hard, so a lot of the books get marketed for those who are most likely to buy them (kids, maybe some horror monster fans, unfortunately also people who think "science ruined dinosaurs" for "making" them feathered) and illustrations are kinda just whatever happens to be available.

This is a big part of my inspiration for the dinosaur project thingy. The world needs more dinosaurs!

Any of my followers have other sources/suggestions for someone new to dinosaurs? I haven't kept my book shelf all that up to date since finishing my thesis (I spent a full year nitpicking dinosaur representation in media. I was so close to slipping into thesis rant mode so many times writing this post it's not even funny... Had to take a break after finishing, and most of my research since has been kinda through online osmosis)

#Long post #Reference #Kinda

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notapaladin · 3 years

Text

they say before you start a war (you'd better know what you're fighting for) (redux)

“I will just expand Acatl’s part a bit,” I said. “I’m not totally thrilled with the ending,” I said. “This will be a quick project,” I said.

FIVE THOUSAND WORDS LATER...y’all get this. Tizoc successfully executes Acatl during Harbinger of the Storm, and Teomitl will do anything to bring him back. Including hand over his own soul.

Original version here.

Also on AO3.

His knees hurt, and the stone under them was cold. It was an absurd detail to focus on when he was bound hand and foot with the executioner looping a garrote around two meaty fists next to him, but that was what stuck in Acatl’s mind. He was going to die, and his knees hurt. And, to add insult to injury, he was going to go to his death with his hair badly in need of a wash and something stuck in his back teeth. He prodded it with his tongue. It didn’t help at all.

He took one deep breath. Another. Any one could be his last. He was careful to keep them deep and even; he would not die sobbing and hyperventilating, begging for mercy. Though it be jade, it is crushed; though it be precious gold, it crumbles. For we do not live forever on this earth, but only for a little while.

A hand in his hair yanked his head up, and the cord came to rest loosely around his neck. He took another breath. Mihmatini. Teomitl. I’m sorry.

If only he’d had more time. His siblings would mourn him, he knew, but they knew he loved them. He’d said all he needed to say there. Teomitl was a different story. When he’d first agreed to teach him the magic of living blood, he’d never expected to feel so strongly for him. True, he’d grown fond of him quickly, but that had been very nearly against his will. His heart had been locked up so tightly for so long that the first crack in the stone had felt like the walls of the Sacred Precinct crumbling around him. At first, it had been terrifying. Over the past year, however...

Well. He didn’t think he could rightly call his feelings fondness anymore. Teomitl was stubborn as a rock and prickly as a cactus, but more and more Acatl had felt something soften like wax in his chest whenever he looked at him. Pride? Affection? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it made his heart beat faster. That Teomitl’s radiant smile always brought an answering one to his own face. That when Teomitl looked even the slightest bit disappointed, the urge to pull him into his arms was near-overwhelming. That Teomitl was the most beautiful young man he’d ever seen. And now it would forever be a mystery. Now he would die, and Teomitl would never know that he might...he might...

His heart hammered against its prison of ribs, twisting nauseatingly as the realization struck. I might be in love. And I can never tell him.

Now his eyes were burning with unshed tears, and he forced them back with pure effort of will. This was a good thing. Teomitl was his student, a dozen years his junior, and courting his sister. There was no way he’d react well to learning his teacher had conceived a passion for him. He would die before he could be tempted to reveal what he’d learned and ruin the relationship they’d so painstakingly built. Teomitl would never be burdened with that knowledge. If he survived this, he would marry Mihmatini without guilt, and they would have a dozen children. Acatl could picture them now.

“And so the traitor falls.”

Oh, Duality preserve him. Instead of trying to fill his mind with calming thoughts of his family or his god, he was going to spend his last moments on earth listening to Tizoc gloat. Of all the indignities heaped upon him, this was one he knew he didn’t deserve. Somehow, he found words enough to snarl, “Hurry up.” It came out as a slurred rasp.

Tizoc smirked at him. He shut his eyes, but he could still hear the smug glee in his voice. It made him want to be sick. Throwing up on Tizoc’s sandals would even be satisfying; too bad the bastard was out of the likely splash zone. “And which of us is on his knees, priest? Which of us has betrayed the Mexica Empire with his words and deeds? It surely isn’t me; you know I’ve always worked for the good of Tenochtitlan, despite your efforts to obstruct my path. I do hope you’ll find an ample reward for your pains in the hereafter.”

There was more after that, but Acatl wasn’t paying attention. The cord was starting to draw tight. One more breath. Another. The darkness behind his eyelids was starting to flash. Another breath—no—he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t breathe. He bucked and jolted instinctively, eyes fluttering open in time to catch blurred images of Quenami and the She-Snake watching him; if he’d had his hands free, he knew he would be clawing his fingers to ribbons against the tough cord.

I can’t—

He needed air. He needed air and there wasn’t any, he was choking, he was going to die—

It wouldn’t be Tlalocan that awaited him, he knew, despite the manner of his death. A High Priest could go no other place than the realm of their patron. After this, he rather thought it would be a relief. At least in Mictlan, he could rest. Lord Death was always fair. Lord Death would let him fade the way his body was stubbornly refusing to.

No. It’s over. It’s over. I’m—only hurting myself—

His eyes snapped open as a twist of the cord sliced into his throat, feeling the sting and the trickle of upwelling blood. The sun blazed down, bathing the courtyard in light. For a moment, he could focus—there was Tizoc smirking, and there was Quenami with a twist to his mouth—but then the darkness flooded his vision again, and though he kept his eyes open he saw nothing.

This was it, then. He thought he should probably be afraid; maybe it was the lack of air that was making it so difficult for him to struggle. His limbs felt like stones, the hammering of his heart echoing like a drum through his ribcage.

The cord bit deep, but it no longer hurt.

He couldn’t feel his own limbs or heartbeat anymore. Soon, he couldn’t feel the cord either. Here at the end, there were no prayers to Lord Death he could offer. But then, he’d be seeing Him soon enough. He hoped Ichtaca wouldn’t be too overworked.

As he faded, he thought he heard the ahuitzotls’ song. And then...

Darkness.

Acatl’s knives burned at Teomitl’s hips, sending bile up into his throat and frozen emptiness down into his stomach, but they hadn’t yet damaged Huitzilopochtli’s wards woven over his skin and so he welcomed the pain. It was agony, but it spurred him onwards. He couldn’t afford to slow down or lose his focus, not even for an instant. Even that much of a delay would be too much time in which Acatl was in mortal danger. If he was late...

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was late. Part of him cursed Nezahual; if he hadn’t run out of power merely getting them out and finding them a boat, they’d have Quetzalcoatl’s magic to speed them on their way. Southern Hummingbird blind him, they’d probably even be safe by now. He could at this instant have been on a boat to safety in Tlacopan or Texcoco or gods, anywhere in the sea-ringed world as long as Acatl was in his arms. Instead there was only him and the ahuitzotls, who were still fast on land but not fast enough. He wished desperately that he’d been blessed by Mixcoatl instead, Lord of the Hunt, but there was no helping that now.

Instead, he prayed to them all, hoping desperately that fervor would make up for not daring to stop and offer his own blood. Gods, please. Please, I’ll build so many temples, I’ll cover you in gold, the blood of eagles, the hearts of jaguars—just let me save him.

They didn’t answer. He kept running. Down the corridor, through one room and another, turning when the sparks of Acatl’s knives sang close, close, and then he was bursting through the entrance curtain and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t move.

There was his brother, smug grin slipping into surprise as he registered the interruption. There was Quenami, backing away with his empty hands raised as though that would save him. There was the swirl of a black cloak around the far corner—the She-Snake, fleeing like a coward. There were even a few guards, looking panicked as they drew their weapons. And in the center of the courtyard was the executioner loosening his garrote to let Acatl fall bonelessly to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing. Dead. Dead. He didn’t need the rattling chill of the knives to tell him that.

No. No. Nonononono—

Teomitl’s mind was a whirlwind of horror and pain, but he’d been in enough campaigns now that his body knew exactly what to do. He couldn’t feel his hands, but that didn’t matter.

He drew his sword and opened himself to Chalchiuhtlicue’s power.

It felt like being at the bottom of the lake; it always did, but this time the water numbed him. He saw the world through lake water, through the eddying rush of a streambed. His heart pulsed like ripples on the shore. When he breathed, he tasted algae; inside his head, the ahuitzotls’ song rose in a chorus, threatening to drown out his thoughts.

In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we hunt In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we consume...

He sucked in a hard, painful breath and wrestled them back into submission. It had been harder since Axayacatl’s death, when his world had tilted; now that it was entirely inside-out, shattered irreparably, it was nearly impossible. He might not have managed it if he hadn’t given them their favorite command. Kill. Kill them.

They leapt to obey. He was only vaguely aware of their rush forward; the executioners and guards screamed as his beasts descended on them in a flood of snapping teeth and grasping claws, but he didn’t bother pitching in. The ahuitzotls had them well in hand. He tasted blood in his own mouth, felt the slick red heat of flesh tearing under his own claws—no, hands. He had hands, and they held a sword. And he had a job to do. The rabble didn’t matter. Even when one took a swing at him, he parried it without looking; all his attention was on Tizoc.

Tizoc, who had just slain Acatl. Tizoc, who was unarmed. Tizoc, who was trying to speak, as though anything he said could possibly bring Acatl back, could undo what he’d done.

“So you have betrayed me!” It sounded like it was coming from underwater.

It was just possible that, if he’d been contrite, he might have earned a few more seconds of life. Unlikely, but possible. But this? This—vindication, as though he was saying he’d been right, and he’d die being right? Teomitl inhaled sharply, feeling it scorch his lungs. “No.”

And then he swung his sword in an upward arc, feeling it cleave flesh and bone; something snapped off in Tizoc’s sternum on the way to the heart, but that was alright. He’d fix it later. Hot blood sprayed his face as Tizoc screamed and screamed and screamed, and some knot in his chest eased. Now I’ve betrayed you. It would take him a good, long time to die.

He turned away, lifting his head. The executioner and both guards were down, ahuitzotls feasting messily and adding the stench of entrails to the heavy odor of blood. They’d left a space around...around Acatl, and ice threatened to flood his veins. I’ve failed. Acatl, I’ve failed you. He wanted to crumple in on himself, wanted to curl around Acatl’s corpse and weep like a child. If he’d been minutes earlier, Acatl would still be alive. Avenging him, killing Tizoc—he knew, deep in his soul, that Acatl would have urged him not to. He would have urged him to consider the strength of the Mexica Empire and his own safety. Now he never would again. Grief rose like knives in his throat.

But he couldn’t give in to it, not yet; there was one foe in the courtyard he hadn’t yet accounted for. He could just make out Quenami huddling frozen and wide-eyed half behind a pillar, frantically trying to trace a glyph on the ground. He recognized the words of a spell on his lips, but that didn’t deter him. It would never be cast. He remembered the sight of a blade at Acatl’s throat with a sharp, sick swell of rage. Quenami had had the nerve to smile when dragging Acatl to his death. Teomitl would carve that smile from his face.

Water flowed around him even this far from the lake, washing Tizoc’s blood from his skin and lending him speed as he charged, sword raised. Quenami was frozen in fear, he could simply cleave his head from his shoulders and that would end it—

Again, he was too late. The strike slammed against glittering golden wards raised in the nick of time; as they spiderwebbed, a wordless scream tore its way free of his throat. His ahuitzotls screamed with him, abandoning their meals to circle this new target. He swung again, and the wards broke.

Quenami’s voice wavered—rank terror, not the ripples of Jade Skirt’s magic in his ears. If Tizoc’s death throes hadn’t died down to gurgling whimpers, he might not have heard it. “My lord...Teomitl-tzin, please!”

Please, he says. Rage threatened to choke him. Only his own self-control kept his hand steady, but the obsidian edge of his macuahuitl was pressed into Quenami’s neck just shy of drawing blood and it was extremely tempting to press harder. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated.

No, that was a lie. He knew why. Because Acatl, damn him, would have cautioned him against reckless slaughter. Would have warned him about the boundaries, about the safety of the Fifth World, about the godsdamned star demons trying to devour them all. If Coyolxauhqui truly was controlling them somehow, they would need the High Priest of Huitzilopochtli no matter what he’d done. But Acatl wasn’t here anymore to gainsay him, was he?

Would you have listened if Acatl had begged for his life? If he had asked to be spared, before you slew him? “Why? Why should I let you live?” His hand was still steady, but his voice shook. He would not cry in front of this bastard, this dog’s son who had torn his heart from him. He would not. Acatl is dead. He is dead, and it’s because of you. I will carve out your heart for his funeral pyre.

Quenami swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. Blood trickled down his neck from where the edge of the sword bit into his flesh. There was fear in his face, yes, but also a stone-hard resolve. “I can bring him back.”

He took an unconscious step backwards, feeling the edges of his grief crumble under the first light touch of hope. If he’s telling the truth. If...I could have Acatl back...

“...Speak.”

Quenami spoke. Indeed, once he was no longer in immediate danger it was difficult to get him to stop. There was a ritual, apparently; a secret passed down through Huitzilopochtli’s clergy from one High Priest to the next. Often it involved making a body of maize and amaranth dough, but given that Acatl’s remains were all in one piece they would be able to dispense with that step. All they would need to do—a trifle, really—was go down into Mictlan and convince Lord Death to relinquish Acatl’s soul. The hardest part would be opening the way, for which Quenami ordinarily required the other High Priests. Given the present circumstances, Ichtaca and the Guardian of the Duality would need to stand in for Acatl—Ichtaca for his connection to the underworld, and Mihmatini for raw power.

Mihmatini. Thinking of her brought another pang to Teomitl’s heart. They’d made plans to send her away for her own safety, but she hadn’t left for Popocatepetl yet. She would have to be informed of her brother’s death and the part she would play in his resurrection. Teomitl doubted it would comfort her much. It certainly wasn’t comforting him.

Acatl was dead. Teomitl had slashed the bonds around his cold limbs and closed his sightless eyes with shaking hands, cursing himself all the while that this was the tenderest touch he could offer, here where it no longer mattered. He should have spoken up when he had the chance, but what had he done instead? Picked stupid fights, clung blindly to his faith in the older brother who had once been admirable, failed to see the kind of man Tizoc was until it was far too late. If this works, he thought, I will lay the full truth of my heart at your feet and beg for your forgiveness.

Other people handled the cleanup after the slaughter, but that wasn’t Teomitl’s concern. He stood on the sidelines and watched as they gathered up the bodies and cleaned up the blood. There were questions. The She-Snake and the rest of the council showed up to answer them, with many sidelong glances in his direction. He hadn’t yet bothered to wash the blood from his skin. It seemed unnecessary.

Eventually Nezahual strode in, directing his warriors to place themselves at Tenochtitlan’s disposal. As he strode over to Teomitl’s darkened corner, Teomitl looked up from his idle study of the tops of his sandals to meet his eyes. Certainty filtered through the numbness. If he gives his condolences, I’m going to stab him.

“Teomitl.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t.” Not that he’d had enough bloodshed—Acatl was dead, he could float the city on a lake of blood and it still wouldn’t be enough—but if this worked, Acatl would probably be upset with him for maiming an allied Revered Speaker. Even if it was terribly, terribly tempting.

“I wasn’t going to.” But the way Nezahual’s eyes widened suggested he’d been thinking it.

“Good.”

Unfortunately, Teomitl’s curtness didn’t make the little bastard leave. No, instead he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Is it true what I’m hearing? That Quenami can restore him to life?”

His heart gave a hard, painful lurch in his chest. He’d been trying not to think about that. Quenami had sounded so certain, but what if that was only self-preservation? What if he was only telling Teomitl what he wanted to hear? No, he thought finally. He wasn’t desperate enough for that. At least, not after Teomitl had taken the sword away from his throat. “He says it is.”

“Hmm. Hmmm.” Nezahual glanced away, stroking his chin. Teomitl forbore mentioning that it was an incredibly stupid-looking gesture on a youth who couldn’t grow a proper beard yet. Finally, he looked back at him and in a quiet, serious voice asked, “Can I help?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?” You had your chance, and your strength ran out when you might have prevented this. Do you think I’ll let you fuck it up again? Somehow, he managed to keep that behind his teeth.

Nezahual hesitated. “...I confess to feeling...somewhat responsible for Acatl’s current situation. I would not have this drive a wedge between us.”

Teomitl sucked in a hard breath. “No.”

“No?” He tilted his head like a snake, eyes just as cold.

Maybe it was stupid of him to rebuff him. No, he knew it was stupid, and he didn’t care. He could apologize later when his chest wasn’t full of knives. Right now, the idea of spending any more time in Nezahual’s presence made him want to kill something. Mihmatini and the priests would be strong enough. They’d pull Acatl’s soul out of Mictlan themselves. “You’ve done enough,” he spat.

Before it could deteriorate further, he spun on his heel and stalked away. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He picked up the pace, almost running through the palace. Servants and nobles alike took one look at him and nearly dove out of his way—a good thing, because he wasn’t stopping. Anger and grief turned a tight whirlpool in his chest, keeping him on his feet. If he stopped to dwell on it, he would fall apart. He couldn’t do that yet. When Acatl is alive, he thought. When he breathes again, I’ll let myself remember this day.

Mihmatini waited for him in the Duality House. He was struck by how normal she looked, surrounded by slaves and underlings. The sun shone down upon her, clear and bright—it was a beautiful day, when there should be storms to match the one in his heart—and she wore a sleeveless blouse embroidered with flowers. Looking at her, he might almost think the world was alright again.

“I...” he began, and stopped. Just that one word was already bringing tears to his eyes.

She got to her feet, searching his face for something she didn’t find. Her own expression crumbled, but her voice was shockingly steady as she asked, “Acatl?”

He shook his head mutely.

“...So it’s true,” she whispered, and threw herself into his arms.

He held her tightly enough that it had to hurt, but she only wrapped her arms around him and shook silently, without tears. Somehow that made it worse; if she’d sobbed, he might have been able to wipe them away and feel a little more useful. Instead he buried his face in her hair, shut his eyes, and focused on his breathing. In. Out. In again. Slowly. No hyperventilating, or he would be the one weeping. And if he started, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop. Again he reminded himself, Not yet.

Finally she sucked in a noisy breath and released him, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with the back of her hand. I should have taken Tizoc apart piece by piece. Out loud, he said, “We need to talk.” Her entire body jolted, and he belatedly thought he could have phrased that better. “It’s not bad. It’s about—him.” He still couldn’t manage Acatl’s name.

She inhaled slowly and nodded, meeting his gaze. “I’ll take you to a private chamber. Follow me.”

He followed.

The room she led him to was bare and impersonal, with a colorful pattern on the wall he was far too unfocused to make out. The only thing that mattered was the expression on Mihmatini’s face—grief-tight, with eyes like flint. He couldn’t find words at first; when he did, he was surprised at how steady he sounded. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. “Quenami says he can be brought back. There’s a ritual. To—to pull his soul out of Mictlan and place it back in his body again. We need you.”

She stared at the floor. He saw her fists clench, knuckles going white in the folds of her skirt. “And you trust him?”

“No.” Not even as far as I can throw him. He took a breath and continued, “But it’s all we have. I...I was too late to save him, Mihmatini, I saw him fall.” Then his voice did break, and he shut his mouth before it could turn into a sob. Acatl’s skin had been so cold.

Mihmatini closed her eyes. “How...?”

He saw it again in his mind’s eye, that horrible ring around Acatl’s throat. The words floated up from far away. “...The flower garland.”

She took a slow, deep breath. He felt the magic of the Duality pulse within her, the thread connecting them flaring up like a line of fire. “Acatl wouldn’t want anyone to go through that. But if this fails...if it’s some sort of trap...I’m twisting the rope around Quenami’s neck myself.”

Some things never changed. He found he could breathe a little easier. “It won’t fail. It can’t. But if it does, you’ll have to. I killed the executioner.”

“And your brother.”

There was no judgment in that voice, but he felt something twist in his chest anyway. His nails bit into his palms as he snarled, “Acatl died of Tizoc’s—of his paranoia and incompetence! He killed him, as surely as if he’d done it with his own two hands. I’d do it over and over and be glad about it!” The emotion was too much. He had to shut his mouth, chest heaving. I wish I’d taken my time about it. See how many parts I could remove before he died.

Mihmatini was watching him, eyes shrewd. “You love my brother, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

For a shameful heartbeat, he thought of lying. Like a brother, he could say. Or, Of course, he’s my honored teacher. But he knew there was no use—Mihmatini’s words and tone had made it all too clear that she’d looked at him and seen straight to the core of his heart. He couldn’t deny it. Not when Acatl was dead and she was here, waiting for him to speak truthfully. He could give her nothing else.

Dropping his gaze to the mat and feeling his face catch fire, he whispered, “...I do. I’m sorry.”

She frowned at him. “For what?”

The question was so unexpected that for a moment all he could do was gape at her. Horror. Anger. A broken heart. He’d expected any one of those reactions. There was simply no good way to tell the woman you might marry that you were in love with her brother, not and still keep her in your life. And he liked Mihmatini—as a friend, if nothing else. He’d been looking forward to marriage and raising their children together, even though the secret he’d harbored would surely tear them apart if he let it slip. But she’d neither struck at him nor burst into tears, and so—at a loss for words—he spluttered, “I—you—he’s your brother—”

She sat back. Whatever she saw in his expression made her face relax into something less precarious than it had been. “I can share. If you think you can make him happy.”

“...I can try.” The wise thing would probably be to reassure her that she would always have the first place in his heart, but he wasn’t sure if that had ever been true. A sizeable chunk, certainly. But the first place had been reserved for Acatl since the moment the man had first bandaged his wounds after a lesson, hands cool and gentle, and he couldn’t see that changing. Acatl made him want to be stronger. More patient. Better. The least he could do in response would be to gladden the man’s heart. Once it beats again.

The frown was back. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I. Uh.” The vow he’d sworn suddenly felt like a much more uncertain thing. There’s no way he feels the same. Does he? What if he hates me for it? But Mihmatini knows her brother; she wouldn’t suggest if she thought it would bring him pain... He chewed hard on the inside of his gold lip plug, but for once the action didn’t help.

By the way she looked at him, his distress was obvious, but her voice held no pity or scorn. Thank the gods. “You should.”

He squared his shoulders and met her eyes. “I will.” They would bring Acatl back. He would breathe again, smile again, walk under the sun with his family again. And Teomitl would lay his heart at his feet, and if he was fortunate—please the Duality, let him be fortunate!—Acatl would pick it up. He refused to favor the idea of any other outcome with so much as a passing thought.

“Good.” Now she was almost smiling, and some pain-tightened corner of his heart relaxed. “He deserves that. He deserves...so much.” For a terrifying second her voice sounded watery, but then she squared her chin and added, “But you’ll do.”

It took a moment for him to register it as a dry attempt at humor, and the chuckle that came out had more in common with a sob. Oh, Mihmatini. What would we do without you?

She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. “Take me to Quenami. Whatever this ritual needs, I’ll do it.” After a moment she added, “And please don’t let me kill him until after we’re done.”

That settled it. If she’d still have him after all this, he was definitely marrying her.

The ritual needed a great many things. Acatl’s corpse needed to be washed and laid out—straight, not curled for a burial—and a suitable space prepared. Mictlantecuhtli’s temple handled that, watched over by a gray-faced and nearly silent Ichtaca in full regalia. Not Acatl’s, thank the gods, but something with almost as many owl feathers and clicking bone beads. Slaves brought the beasts they would need to sacrifice; Quenami moved gingerly among them, tallying cages of owls and hummingbirds and a huge, ill-tempered heron. Mihmatini carried armfuls of flowers for the Duality, the orange of marigolds and the red blossoms of plumeria the only color in the room.

Teomitl had never been in the temple’s innermost sanctum before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about his surroundings when a single wrong move might put Acatl beyond his reach forever. He stood by, forcing himself not to fidget as the fog of centuries of Mictlan’s magic sizzled against his skin. It very much did not care for the residue of Huitzilopochtli’s wards, even though those had been ritually removed to make his job easier. Across the room stood Neutemoc, who hadn’t spoken a word since arriving with Mihmatini nearly an hour ago. At least there was one other person who would much rather be fighting a dozen star demons at once than standing here waiting. There was very little he could do; it was up to Quenami to sacrifice the hummingbirds and trace the glyph for Four Jaguar while Acamapichtli did the same with the heron and the glyphs for Four Water and Four Rain. Ichtaca, knife in hand, took care of the owls and Four Wind. Four glyphs for the worlds that had come before, and living blood to bind them all into the spell. Finally Mihmatini stepped forward, slashed her earlobes, and added her blood and the flowers to their work.

Quenami had the job of cutting a circle into the floor to enclose the space. He paused, gaze sweeping the room—how dare he, they couldn’t afford to waste time—and lighting on Teomitl’s face, heedless of his furious glare. Someone had bandaged the cut on his neck. “Only one of you can go into Mictlan. This is not my realm, and I cannot widen the path. It can’t be Ichtaca; he needs to hold the way for us here.”

Teomitl didn’t need to think about it. “I’ll go.”

Another voice echoed his; confused, he looked up to see Neutemoc take a step forward, face set with grim determination. He met Teomitl’s eyes as he continued, “He’s my little brother.”

“He’s my—” Friend seemed inadequate, teacher too base. Beloved was something he couldn’t allow himself to think lest he break. It was easier, safer, to reach for other justifications, and they came easily to him in the memory of Mazatl’s curious hands and Ollin’s gummy smile. “What of your children, if this fails? Will you leave them orphans? Stay here, and let me bring Acatl-tzin back.”

Neutemoc studied him for a long moment, searching for something in his face. Eventually he seemed to find it and stepped back with a satisfied nod. “You’d better.”

As Quenami knelt to close the circle, Teomitl moved to take his prescribed position kneeling by Acatl’s head. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t bear to see that face waxy and still, not now.

A dog’s throat was slit, and the hymns began. He let the words wash over him; as the chants rolled on, the world around him started to fall away. Mindful of instructions, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the temperature drop. The air took on the stale smell of a thousand years of dust and the reek of decay, acidic emptiness scouring the back of his throat. He had a moment to be glad he hadn’t eaten anything, and then his head was swimming too much for him to think. The only thing anchoring him to life was his heartbeat, steady and strong.

Beat.

Beat. He was weightless, floating.

Beat.

A cold, wet nose nudged his palm, and he opened his eyes to a field of black stone, gray dust, and a sky precisely one shade lighter. The dog that had been sacrificed was sitting in front of him, tail sending up little clouds every time it thumped. There was wet crimson blood in its yellow fur, colors leaching to gray in light that seemed to come from nowhere and cast indifferent shadows.

It trotted off. He followed.

He very quickly lost track of how long he’d been walking. There were no landmarks here; he was walking the same path Acatl’s soul had walked at the moment of his death, and a High Priest didn’t have to contend with the rivers of blood and plain of knives that the common rabble did. Part of him was disappointed, for at least it would have been some measure of progress. The rest of him knew he wouldn’t have made it through so much as an overly deep puddle. He’d thought carrying Acatl’s knives was bad, but it was nothing to actually walking through Lord Death’s realm.

The air sapped all joy and hope from his soul, leaving only the grim certainty that he had to keep going. Even anger was too much effort; the heat of it was simply no match for the gnawing emptiness in his chest and the tremor in his limbs. Tears welled in his eyes, but he was too listless to blink and let them fall. Cold seeped through his veins and slowed his heart.

At least he could still feel it beating. He could take some comfort in that. Acatl, wait for me. I’m coming for you.

The dog seemed to know where it was going. Though obsidian shards bit through his sandals and bloodied his feet, they left no marks on its paws. He kept walking, one foot in front of the other; blood was a small price to pay for Acatl’s soul. He would offer his heart if he thought it would help. There was nothing else he could do for him now.

But oh, he was so cold. He was cold, and shivering sounded like too much work. Maybe he should rest for a while—yes, that sounded like a wonderful idea. There was a rock up ahead that had twisted itself into something vaguely like a tree, perfect to lean on.

He staggered towards it, slipping in his own blood, and fell facedown in the dust. It hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to care; the relief of letting the earth support his body was too great. Acatl could wait a little longer, surely. Surely...

Teeth fastened in his wrist, pain jangling up his arm. His eyes snapped open on instinct, free hand going for the sword he wasn��t wearing before he realized it was the dog tugging pointedly at his forearm with a growl that seemed to say, If you aren’t going to walk to Lord Death’s throne, then I will drag you there. It let him pull his arm free and stand up, but kept up its low, discontented rumble.

He felt like growling himself. Fool that I am, how could I have forgotten? I can rest later.

They walked on. His wrist throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, tethering him to the world and to his mission. He would not fail. The road stretched on before him, and all he had to do was keep walking. One step. Another. Another. His sandals were soaked with blood, making him slip; annoyed, he kicked them off and continued on. He’d walk forever if he had to.

And then the ground shifted, warped, folded, and he stood before a dais made of bones where the world was filled with rot and ashes.

Somehow, he’d expected a temple; instead, Mictlantecuhtli’s and Mictecacihuatl’s thrones looked as though they’d grown out of the ground. Bundles of femurs formed the low arms, and the seats were made of a collection of pelvises bound with curved jawbones. Lord and Lady Death lounged side by side, watching him with an expression of amused indulgence on their sunken, skeletal faces. Like I’m a dog that might be taught to perform clever tricks, he thought without much heat. He knew he should probably bow. He couldn’t make his knees bend.

Mictecacihuatl tilted Her head, studying him. “Well, well. What brings you to Our throne, little mortal?”

He’d never been good at speeches. It was something he’d been meaning to study, especially if he meant to move up through the ranks, but now there was no time. Besides, if They were like Acatl, They’d appreciate plain language more. “Acatl-tzin. Your High Priest. Where is he?”

“Ah.” She met Her husband’s eyes, and they shared a long look. She settled back on her throne, a fan of scapulas sprouting up behind Her, and said, “We have taken him into Our home, as is Our right and privilege. He has assumed his proper place at the foot of Our throne.” She gestured expansively, and he followed the movement to something he hadn’t noticed before.

There, just in front of and between the two thrones, was a tiny, fluttering moth under a thin dome of dust and air. He felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Acatl.” A wild thought seized him—grab him and run—but he knew he wouldn’t get far in Mictlantecuhtli’s domain. He’d be lucky even to feel the brush of wings against his skin.

He spun back to meet the gods’ gazes. “My Lady, My Lord, please reconsider. The Fifth World needs him back. We can’t—” The star demons. The boundaries. My empire. “We’ll fall without him.”

“Worlds have fallen before.” Mictlantecuhtli drummed His fingers on the arm of His throne, bone clattering on bone. “We have endured. We will always endure. Why should We give up such a loyal and well-beloved High Priest only to run the risk of him being killed again?”

Because I won’t let it happen again. Ever. He blinked dry eyes, feeling them prickle with dust. His eyes darted to where Lord and Lady Death sat on Their thrones, desiccated fingers almost touching. Even in their most formal attitudes, They leaned ever so slightly towards each other. Slowly, the words came to him. “Of all the gods, You know love best. My Lord...if My Lady were taken from You...”

“All existence would know My wrath until She was returned.” Mictlantecuhtli’s voice had all the finality of the grave, and Teomitl watched as His hand moved to cover His wife’s. “And is this why you are here, begging for Our priest’s life to be restored? For love?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I never got to tell him.” It came out in a breath, barely audible over the breeze.

The gods shared another long look. Teomitl didn’t dare move. He willed his heart to beat quieter, lest it disturb them. The gulf in his chest howled.

Finally, Mictlantecuhtli spoke. “We will release him into your care.” Teomitl thought His skull face was attempting a smile. It was a terrible thing to see on a face that was mostly bone and dried skin. “But there will be a price for you.”

“I’ll pay it.” Here, at last, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Whatever You want of me. Anything. My heart? My body? My life? It will be Yours. Just let me walk with Acatl out of here, let me set him back in his body and tell him how I love him.

“Brave boy.” The ash rose, nearly blinding him; when it cleared, the little moth was fluttering gently in front of his face. “You may take Our High Priest’s soul, and settle it back in his living flesh, and it will be like he never died. But upon your death, though you may die in glorious battle, you will take his place here.”

He cupped his hands around Acatl’s soul, feeling its tiny feet alight on his fingers. His heart felt full to bursting. He is here. He’s here. We did it. “As you wish, My Lord—my Lady.”

Mictecacihuatl snorted, waving Her hand. “You have what you came for. Be off with you, feather of the Hummingbird.”

Feather of the—? “Wait,” he began, but before he could even formulate a question there was a quincunx shimmering into being under his feet. For a long moment he knew nothing, was nothing, and then he was falling through ash again and back into the temple sanctum.

Beat.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he was present in his own skin. It felt too warm and too tight after his sojourn in Mictlan, breath rasping through his lungs, but he was kneeling by Acatl’s head and holding his soul in his hands so nothing else mattered. He could die immediately, and still nothing else would matter.

No, that wasn’t true. He still had to tell Acatl how he felt.

“Did it—?“

“Teomitl!”

He ignored the outcry around him. Instead he lowered his hands to Acatl’s mouth, letting the moth fly out to brush against Acatl’s lips where it disappeared in a brief, soundless burst of air. For an excruciating moment nothing happened, and despair threatened to drag him under. Is there more? Have we failed after all?

And then life flooded Acatl’s skin, and he took a slow, shallow breath.

Teomitl wanted to cheer. He wanted to sob. He wanted to curl up around Acatl and go to sleep for a month. He did none of those things. Acatl’s face was practically in his lap, filling him with so much tenderness he thought he might die of it; before he could even think to remember his audience, he reached down and cupped Acatl’s cheek, revelling in the warmth of living blood under his hands.

Thank the gods. Thank you, Lord and Lady Death, for this gift of Acatl’s life.

Things started to move quickly after that. Acatl was borne on a stretcher to recuperate in the palace, where the She-Snake had arranged for a team of Patecatl’s priests to meet him. Teomitl wondered if they’d be any use or if they’d just stand around making concerned noises; being brought back from the dead was surely not common enough to warrant a page in their codices. He supposed that if nothing else, they could do something about what promised to be some truly spectacular bruising on his throat. He wanted to go with him—surely he couldn’t be expected to leave Acatl alone, no matter that Mihmatini refused to leave his side—but when he tried to stand up he almost fell over, and Neutemoc had to help him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he muttered, face burning.

Neutemoc squeezed his shoulder, a brotherly gesture he’d never gotten from his own brothers. His eyes were suspiciously wet. “You brought my brother back. I should be thanking you.”

There were still too many people around. He couldn’t fall to pieces yet. “I won’t accept it. Anyone would have done the same.”

Neutemoc gave him a dry look so reminiscent of Acatl that he felt his throat close up. Before he could do or say anything else emotional, he shrugged off his hand and left. Star demons or no, he needed to be out in the sunlight. He needed to remind himself that he was alive, that they’d won at least this small victory.

The sun fell across his shoulders like a warm blanket, and he soaked it in with his eyes closed for a long, blissful moment. Here, there were no star demons. Here, there was no yawning chasm of power in the Mexica Empire. Here, he didn’t need to worry about consequences or the things he had left to do. Tizoc was dead, and Acatl was alive. The sun woke answering warmth in his blood. He could pretend he was free.

Then he opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky. The clear blue sky, with not a single errant star piercing through the fabric of the heavens. His mind went blank in shock. We don’t have a Revered Speaker. Nobody should be channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power in the Fifth World right now. This shouldn’t be happening.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, and took a second look. The sky remained clear. He squinted, trying to see if the tiny pale speck was a star or—no, it was just a cloud. The sky was still clear, and now his temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.

Footsteps behind him announced Quenami’s presence before the man spoke. “Well. Congratulations, my lord.”

He resisted the urge to whirl around and strangle the man with his bare hands. There’d be no point to it now that Acatl was alive. “Mn?” He didn’t mean to make it a question, but even for him Quenami was being obsequious.

Quenami chose his words with the air of a man picking his way through a field of obsidian knives. “Acatl has been restored to life thanks to you, and it...appears...that Huitzilopochtli has taken a liking to your bravery in walking into His enemy’s domain. Allow me to be the first to greet my new Revered Speaker-in-waiting.”

Oh. He stared down at his hands, seeing for the first time the faint tracery of gold glimmering over his skin, the warmth that he’d thought had just been the sun. In a manner of speaking, he’d been right. The Southern Hummingbird’s blessing. Is this what Mictecacihuatl meant? As he turned the idea over in his mind, his fists clenched. If the gods were choosing him for the office, then he would be worthy of it.

He would start by being honest. With himself, with Acatl, and with those less deserving.

“If you ever again address Acatl-tzin with less than full respect, Quenami, I will cut out your tongue.”

Darkness.

Pain.

It was the first thing that greeted Acatl as he swam up from the depths of unconsciousness. Everything hurt. His joints throbbed, his skin tingled, and his back ached. And his throat...his throat was the worst. It felt as though it had been squeezed shut, so sore and swollen that even breathing was agony. He lay flat on his back, staring at the inside of his closed lids, and tried to remember why that should be. The last thing he could recall with any certainty was the sham of a trial Tizoc and Quenami had put him through, where he’d been unable to mount even a few words in his own defense without drooling like an imbecile. And then...

The verdict. The flower garland. The courtyard. The ahuitzotls singing to him.

Teomitl.

He tried to stir, but at first his limbs refused to obey him. Alright then, he thought, small steps. Though it felt like moving an entire mountain, he could wiggle his toes. His fingers were next. His arms and legs felt constrained by something, but as he shifted he realized why. Instead of his own thin reed mat, he was laying on at least two thick new ones, and someone had covered him with a light cotton blanket like an invalid. He should have been sweating in the summer heat, but there was a chill sunken into his bones. The last thing he remembered was the garrote cutting off his breath. Swallowing brought a spasm of pain, a dry clicking noise, and the realization that he was desperately thirsty. “Mngh...”

“My lady? He’s waking.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Mihmatini. She was safe, then. Whatever Tizoc had done, it hadn’t touched her. He thought she must be close by; he could hear the rustle of her skirts and smell the faint piney scent of copal incense. The small hand laid on his forehead was reassuringly warm. “Acatl, can you speak? How do you feel?”

“Grmngh.” He swallowed again. With another monumental effort, he wedged his eyes open. Mihmatini’s face swam into focus above him, pinched with worry but blessedly not bearing any injuries he could see. She’d braided her hair at some point, but now the simple plait was in disarray. The dark circles under her eyes looked bruised in the dim afternoon light, and there was fresh blood beading at her earlobes. I must be in terrible shape. “Sore,” he croaked, and then, “Water...?”

Water was brought, mixed with fresh-tasting medicinal herbs. He tried to push himself up and failed; his muscles were like softened rubber trying to move the cold, solid rock of his own flesh. Mihmatini’s hand at his back molded him into a more or less upright position so that he could drain the cup offered by a slave he recognized as Oyahuaca, ignoring both women’s concerned glances until he was hydrated enough to speak without feeling like he was gargling knives. It helped a little. Not much—gods help him, he was still so damnably weak, and his throat was in agony—but a little. He could think now, and with thought came questions. “What...what happened? Where’s Teomitl?” The ahuitzotls were singing. I know I heard them. Where they are, Teomitl wouldn’t be far behind.

Mihmatini shot a sharp look at Oyahuaca. “Fetch the Revered Speaker while I fill my brother in on what he’s missed.”

He heard the words, but they seemed to be slow in assembling themselves into a coherent sentence. The Revered Speaker? What did that have to do with Teomitl? Gods, he prayed they hadn’t elected Tizoc while he was indisposed. He couldn’t see that going well for anyone, not with that man’s paranoia given free reign. And Teomitl would surely be furious if that was the case, which wouldn’t improve the situation. He’d been in enough of a temper recently that Acatl really didn’t want to see what it looked like if it got worse. That wasn’t even mentioning the star demons. Was Tizoc even capable of channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power? Somehow he doubted it, Master of the House of Darts or no. It would be just my luck to survive a garroting and immediately have my soul eaten by a star demon, he thought sourly.

It wasn’t until Oyahuaca rose and left at a pace that wasn’t quite a run that he managed to say anything. “Mihmatini.”

She took a deep breath, staring down at her hands. “Do you remember the courtyard? The—the flower garland?”

He nodded dully. It wasn’t likely he’d ever forget. His knees throbbed, a sense-memory of cold stone and naked fear. Of searing pain and darkness and the knowledge that he would die with things left unsaid. Knowing that he now had the chance to say them didn’t bring him any comfort. It wasn’t as though he realistically could, not if he expected a favorable outcome. “There were ahuitzotls.” And then there’d been nothing else. He’d blacked out, probably.

“Well.” She took another breath, hands clenching into fists. “The ahuitzotls were too late. You...” Oh no. There were tears in her eyes. “Teomitl arrived in time to see you die.”

No. His chest felt suddenly too tight, his hammering heart the only thing he could focus on. As if in a dream, he looked down at his hands and knew she was telling the truth. If he engaged his priestly senses, he could see the ghostly tendons and bones under his skin. The dry, cold, acidic emptiness of Mictlan gnawed sharp and vicious at his stomach, too close to the surface. He felt colder than ever. “I...”

I died. I died, and yet I am here. He sucked in a slow breath, tasting ash and herbs and cold water. Another breath brought the sour stench of the sickroom. He’d died. He’d died, and somehow he’d been brought back. Somehow he was here with a pounding heart and aches in all his bones, the pain further proof that he yet lived. Mihmatini sat close enough that he could feel her warmth; when he sniffed, the mingled scents of her perfume and a distant kitchen filled his nostrils. Someone was roasting chilies, and it made his stomach growl lightly. Alive.

Mihmatini was still talking, and he struggled to keep up with it. “He killed Tizoc on the spot. He would have killed Quenami, too, if that dog’s son hadn’t led the ritual to bring your soul back from Mictlan. After...after that, apparently the Southern Hummingbird made it known in no uncertain terms who He was choosing to wield His powers in the Fifth World, so the rest of the council elected to instate Teomitl as Revered Speaker.” She swallowed. “You’ve...you’ve been unconscious for a week. You missed his coronation.”

What?!

Teomitl was Revered Speaker? That was... Acatl shook his head in disbelief. He’s too young was his first thought, but immediately he knew that was wrong. He certainly wasn’t too young to take prisoners in battle, to be personally chosen by Huitzilopochtli. To be the man Acatl realized, with a sinking heart, that he was definitely still in love with, because the idea of Teomitl wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown and still calling him Acatl-tzin, still looking to him for guidance, was doing something very strange to his emotions. He thought he might laugh. Or cry. Either was a distinct possibility.

It was too much. Mind spinning, he grabbed one thing out of the swarm of questions thronging his mind to focus on. He couldn’t handle politics now, not in the state he was in, but the workings of even the most esoteric magical rituals were refreshingly familiar. Even if they involved—ugh—Quenami. “Lord Death should not have released me. So...how...?”

A faint smile crossed Mihmatini’s face. “You should ask Teomitl about that when he arrives. He’s been very worried about you, no matter how many of us tell him that you’re recovering well. If it wasn’t for his coronation, I really don’t think he’d ever leave your side.”

He felt himself blush. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

She snorted and gently shoved at his shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m sure I’m not! He loves you more than he does me.”

He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. He sat in silence for a moment, willing the words to make sense. Mihmatini had to have said something else—meant something else. When she didn’t follow up with any sort of clarification and he realized she was looking at him for a reaction, he found his voice cracking in shock. “He—what?!”

“You heard me.” And now she was unmistakably smiling. For the first time in his life, Acatl wanted a cup with something significantly stronger than water.

It didn’t seem likely that he’d get it. She was still looking at him, seemingly happy as anything, and she’d just told him that the man she was courting was in love with him. He didn’t need to pinch himself—he was in quite enough pain that he knew perfectly well he had to be alive and conscious, thank you very much—but it still didn’t seem real. He couldn’t be that fortunate. He’d made his peace, hadn’t he? He’d determined already that he would go to the grave with his feelings rather than ruin the relationship Teomitl and Mihmatini were building.

Except he had gone to the grave. And somehow—he was not giving Quenami all the credit, he flatly refused, a man had to have some limits—he’d been pulled out of it. And now Mihmatini was telling him that Teomitl had been worried about him. That it had taken the long, painstakingly involved rituals of a royal coronation to pull him away from Acatl’s sickbed. That he loved him. “But you...he...” At a complete loss for words, he gestured in the air between them.

She shrugged carelessly. “Oh, the wedding is still on. We were waiting for you to wake. But I’m not first in his heart, and that suits me fine.”

He swallowed, another grinding flash of pain. Belatedly he remembered his water, and took a long gulp before answering. “...If you’re happy.” Regardless of whether she was the Guardian of the Duality or Teomitl’s wife, she’d always be his little sister. Her happiness was far, far more important to him than his own heart. Even if it seemed, amazingly, that he had nothing to fear.

“I am.” Her grin made her whole face glow. “And you?”

“What about me?” She didn’t know. He was entirely sure she didn’t know, not when he’d only realized it himself moments before he died.

She swatted him again. “Tizoc is dead, you’re alive, and you very definitely have the favor of our new Revered Speaker. The boundaries are safe. The star demons aren’t a threat anymore. I’d say that’s plenty enough to be happy about.”

He had to sit with that for a moment, still clutching his empty cup in both hands. She was right, of course. He was alive. They were safe. Teomitl was Emperor now, and he was no paranoid coward like his brother had been. No, instead he was brave and strong and whip-smart and he...Mihmatini said he might... Gods, he thought dizzily. He had thought there was no chance. He had died thinking there was no chance.

Mihmatini was looking at him. He choked out a grunt. It was the closest he could get to an actual response.

Someone was sprinting down the hallway outside. It was all the warning he got before the entrance curtain was yanked aside so roughly that it nearly came off its hanging rod; the cacophony of bells that announced the intrusion nearly drowned out the cry of, “Acatl-tzin!” that accompanied it. Teomitl stood in the doorway for a moment, relief plain on his face and the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown equally plain on his head.

Acatl couldn’t look away. He’s been crowned. He is my Emperor now. And he still...he still calls me Acatl-tzin. He wanted to laugh for the sheer joy of it.

Mihmatini rose gracefully, but the smile she turned on Teomitl had an edge to it. “I’ll leave you to talk.”

After Mihmatini left, all Acatl could do was stare at Teomitl. Absurdly, he thought, He looks the same. The same lean, solidly muscled build, the same nose and eyes, the same little scar on one elbow where a training sword had caught him as a child. True, his cloak and sandals were rich turquoise, his earrings and lip plug were jade and gold, and there was a slender emerald rod piercing his nose, but his face hadn’t changed. It was still open and guileless, every emotion writ clear. He loves you, Mihmatini had said. Acatl thought he could believe it.

Slowly, carefully, Teomitl sank down next to his mat. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Acatl’s face; for a moment Acatl thought he was going to reach for him, but he seemed to think better of it. “I...how are you feeling?”

How am I feeling, he asks. Again he thought he could laugh, but there was no joy in it; under his skin, dry dust rustled like paper. His bones still ached. Even with the blanket over him, there was a chill clinging to his skin. The words were out before he could stop them, more acidic than he’d intended. “...I’ve just been dead, Teomitl. How do you think?”

Teomitl jerked back, glaring at him with more hurt than anger. “It’s a valid concern!” He swallowed once, visibly, and added in a softer voice, “We weren’t sure when you’d wake.”

There was a tremor to the words Acatl really didn’t like, and Mihmatini’s words crossed his mind again. She’d never answered the question of how he’d returned. Part of him didn’t want to know. He was alive, wasn’t he? Let the details rest. But if Teomitl had done something...ill-advised to bring him back, then it was his responsibility to help fix it. Even now that Teomitl was Revered Speaker, it was still his responsibility. He took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt so much anymore. “I’m just glad to be able to wake at all. Mihmatini told me that Quenami provided the magic, but how...?”

Teomitl dropped his gaze, but his voice was firm; his shoulders rolled as though he was preparing for a fight. “...Someone had to go into Mictlan. I volunteered.”

What. The words crystallized in his mind, horror slicing like swords. It’s one thing for me to go—I am Lord Death’s servant! But Teomitl, sworn to the Southern Hummingbird and Jade Skirt, walking through enemy territory—for me—

“Lord Death was...willing to release your soul to me.”

He forced himself to breathe. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. For Teomitl to walk back to the Fifth World with my soul... With dread gripping his heart in eagle claws, he forced out, “What did He want in exchange?”

Silence. Teomitl closed his eyes on a long exhale.

“What did He want, Teomitl?!”

“Mine!” Teomitl’s eyes snapped open, filled with an anguished emotion Acatl couldn’t even begin to unravel. His fists clenched, white-knuckled, as he caught Acatl’s gaze and held it; he was stunned to see tears in his eyes. For all that, his voice held steady with barely a waver. “I offered Him my soul in exchange for yours, and He accepted. When I die...I’ll go to Mictlan. And it will be worth it, Acatl-tzin, do you understand?” He raised his voice right over the feeble noise that escaped Acatl’s lips. “It will! Because I lied to Tizoc, you’re mine, and I couldn’t let you die!”

Horror—he did that for me, gave up all hope of the Sun’s Heaven for me—almost threatened to swamp him. Teomitl was a warrior. He was the Emperor. He deserved an eternity by the side of the Sun, and he’d thrown it all away for him. For a poor priest from a family of peasants.

“I’m what,” he choked out. “Teomitl, what were you thinking?!”

“You heard me!” Teomitl snapped, making a furious stabbing motion with his hand.

His heart felt as though it had, impossibly, migrated up into his throat. He could barely speak around it. “But I...but...” Your soul. The place in the heavens you deserve. Even Tizoc might go there, if he died with a weapon in his hand. And you never will.

Teomitl had clearly decided there was no room for remorse or second-guessing himself. He raised his voice to a snarl. “No buts!” He jerked his head to one side, eyes shutting too slowly to stop the trickle of tears down his face. Acatl felt his heart crack in two at the sight. It was worse when Teomitl scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a hand, made a horribly wet throat-clearing noise, and bit out, “You’re the most important person in the world to me, Acatl-tzin.”

Helpless, he reached for him—and stopped. No matter how much he wanted to pull Teomitl into his arms, he had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well. “I’m not—” He stopped. Started again. “I’m just—”

Teomitl looked up, glaring at him through reddened eyes. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. Your life is worth more to me than anything else.”

Including your brother. He didn’t say that. His own eyes burned. “Mihmatini told me Tizoc-tzin is dead.”

“He is.” Teomitl’s voice was striving for neutrality, but there was too much bitter fury still lingering in it for it to ring true. That, and he still sounded close to tears.

Acatl had to swallow tears of his own and wished for more water. “By your hand?” He found he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Yes, brothers should stand by brothers, and unquestionably that precluded murder. On the other hand...well. He could admit to a certain petty vindictiveness. Tizoc had executed him for a crime he hadn’t even committed. That certainly deserved death in return.

“I had to,” Teomitl said simply. Now he sounded steady, but his knuckles had gone white where he’d grabbed a fistful of his jade-beaded cloak.

“...Why?” But even as he asked, he knew the answer. The knot in his chest started to loosen, and he found he could breathe.

Teomitl recoiled, staring at him incredulously. “For you, you fool!” It came out ragged, raw. He had to take a breath before continuing, “I saw you and—Tizoc tore my heart from my chest when he killed you, Acatl-tzin. I returned the favor.”

Oh. Oh. Mihmatini was right. By the Duality, she was right. And so was Teomitl; he was a fool, because he’d thought he could possibly have hidden how he felt. There would be no hiding this. His heart was hammering so fiercely he could feel it in his fingertips. He was still exhausted, still sore from his encounter with death, but that didn’t matter next to the cataclysm of emotion swirling through him. It was for me. He went into Mictlan for me, slew his own brother for me. Because...

It still didn’t seem possible. He was no great warrior or dazzling beauty. He would bring no glory to his clan. He could only hope to be a good man, to serve the gods and the empire well. And yet somehow, he’d earned a place in Teomitl’s heart.

“...Teomitl.” It seemed to be the only word in his reeling mind. He realized he was leaning closer, that it would be so easy for him to close the distance between them, and only just stopped himself in time.

Teomitl swallowed convulsively, dropping his gaze. Even in the dim light afforded to them, it was easy to see him turn a dull, dark red. “I—” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Acatl’s and squeezing tight. “Acatl-tzin. Acatl.”

He’d never heard his name like that before—harsh and desperate, unspoken emotion ringing through it like bells. It made his heart skip a beat, and for a moment he could barely breathe. “Are you not...?” The Revered Speaker, he wanted to say, as far above me as the sun in the sky. But the words lodged in his throat and stuck there; helpless, he gestured to Teomitl’s turquoise adornments with his free hand. The other one was still held firmly in Teomitl’s grasp, making it easy for him to tangle their fingers together. Whether you are or not, I’m yours.

It must have been the right thing to do, because Teomitl was looking at him again. “Yes. But...” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Acatl’s focus followed it. “To you, I want to be Teomitl.”

He wasn’t cold anymore. Warmth pulsed through him like another heart, and Mictlan’s chill had never felt farther away. “And...” The words were out before he could call them back; maybe it was a stupid question, but he had to know. He had to be sure, before he did something he might regret. There were many different ways to love, and it was entirely possible that what Teomitl had said and what Mihmatini had heard were two entirely different things than the emotion coursing through him now. “Is that all you want from me?” Please say it isn’t, he thought desperately. Please say I’m not the only one willing to follow anywhere this leads.

Teomitl’s thumb smoothed over Acatl’s fingers, very nearly distracting him from his words. “No,” he said simply.

Now he knew he wasn’t breathing. Teomitl’s hand on his was his greatest anchor to the earth. “Ngh?”

Teomitl smiled, brief and radiant, as his gaze drifted pointedly to Acatl’s mouth. “When you are well enough, I’m going to kiss you.”

It was a simple statement of fact—the sky is blue, Grandmother Earth is hungry, I am going to kiss you. Acatl took a moment to breathe, feeling the foundations of his world lift and resettle themselves to account for this new version of reality. His limbs still felt too heavy and his throat was a dull-edged sword of pain, but none of that mattered. Teomitl had brought him back to life, saved the Fifth World, loved him.

He tilted his head and leaned in, the clearest invitation he could give. “...I’m well enough now.”

Teomitl closed the distance.

He’d thought about what kissing Teomitl might be like. He’d been ashamed, yes, but Teomitl was an attractive youth who smiled easily and his vow of celibacy didn’t make him a eunuch. He’d imagined something rough and passionate, maybe a little clumsy in his eagerness. He’d imagined more teeth. He hadn’t imagined soft, gentle lips pressed to his, coaxing his mouth open. He loves me. It was the easiest thing in the world to relax into it, letting the arm Teomitl slid around him take his weight as he kissed back.

From there it was only natural to pull him close in return. Acatl rested a hand at his waist, revelling in the heat of the smooth skin there and the small, soft noise Teomitl made into his mouth. It almost sounded surprised, and he couldn’t help but smile. Did you not think I wanted to touch you? Oh, but it was too difficult to kiss someone when you were smiling, and soon he had to pull away. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

“Acatl.” Teomitl was smiling too; they bumped noses, and Acatl had to suppress a little bubble of laughter. “You don’t know how happy I am right now.”

“I think I can guess.” He ran his fingers lightly over Teomitl’s side—too lightly, evidently, because it startled a squeaky, adorable giggle out of him. He hadn’t realized Teomitl could laugh like that. He certainly hadn’t realized the man was ticklish. Now there was no use suppressing his delight, nor the grin that threatened to split his face.

Teomitl’s eyes narrowed warily, but without any real heat. “Do not. I swear to the Duality, I’ll take back everything I just said.”

He decided to be merciful, smoothing his hand over the skin instead and watching the delicate little shiver that resulted. “You won’t. You never break your word.” He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Teomitl loves me. I love him in return. That will never change, not in this world.

“Mm.” Teomitl kissed him again, brief and sweet. “No, but I wouldn’t mind the chance to say it again properly.”

“Properly?” He’d done an excellent job of expressing his feelings as far as Acatl was concerned. There was surely no chance of him misunderstanding kisses like that, not when they were still making his skin tingle.

But apparently Teomitl disagreed. He blushed again, averting his gaze. “This isn’t how I wanted to say...any of that,” he muttered. “I had plans. And besides, I was hardly sure you were going to listen!”

He felt like he’d been stabbed. How long? How long was he carrying this? And I was blind. I didn’t even realize what was in my own heart until the last moment. Duality curse him, he’d been a prize idiot. “Teomitl...” he murmured.

Teomitl glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. There was the faintest hint of a rueful smile on his face. “I thought for sure it was doomed,” he muttered. “That I’d have to take it to my grave. I thought I didn’t have a chance.”

Acatl was already shaking his head. Or rather, he shook his head once; continuing the motion reminded him he’d been recently strangled, and his neck muscles had opinions on that. “You thought wrong. I...” But he stumbled over the words, flustered.

“Hm?” He was acutely aware of the way Teomitl froze, watching him.

Well, there was no stopping it now. And it was the truth, besides. “I love you,” he blurted out.

Teomitl went spectacularly crimson, but Acatl didn’t have much time to admire the view because then they were kissing again. It was still slow and careful, but this time Teomitl shifted to lay them both onto the mat and that turned out to be considerably easier on his sore muscles, not to mention giving him an excellent chance to skim a palm all the way down the exposed skin of Teomitl’s side. Teomitl hummed into his mouth, an intoxicating noise. “Mmm...”

Even when he broke the kiss, he didn’t go far. He didn’t want to. “Does that mean you believe me?”

Teomitl’s smile was like a sun rising. “You’re right. Mictlan might have my soul, Acatl, but my heart is yours.”

He’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten. He closed his eyes, unwillingly assaulted with far too vivid memories of the cold and the darkness and the dust. But he still tasted Teomitl’s mouth on his when he licked his lips, and that helped to banish it a little. “I still cannot believe you did that,” he muttered.

Teomitl held him tighter, huffing out an annoyed-sounding breath. “I had nothing else to give. Oblivion is worth it as long as I can spend my life with you.”

He inhaled sharply. “Oh, Teomitl.”

There was nothing for it but to draw Teomitl in for another kiss, this one deeper; as hands found his hair, his own dug into Teomitl’s skin. After a second’s worth of surprise, Teomitl returned the fervor with a growl. There were the teeth he’d been wondering about, and he welcomed them. If he’d had the energy—if the Revered Speaker could be assured of any privacy at all—he would have allowed himself to crave more. Since they couldn’t, he settled for catching Teomitl’s lower lip lightly between his teeth and thrilling in the soft gasp before he pulled away just far enough to breathe, “Then I hope we die on the same day, in the same hour. I won’t let you walk through Mictlan alone.” Not again, at any rate.

Teomitl grinned at him. “It will be a good journey.”

Upon their deaths, they would both dissolve into dust at the foot of Lord Death’s throne. But here and now, they were alive. Acatl found he was looking forward to that.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #mihmatini #mihmitl #quenami #tizoc #paladin writes stuff

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rosaline-kei · 4 years

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Disclaimer:I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin / Attack on Titan nor its characters.

Title: Playboy no more - EreMika Fanfic ; OneShot

Synopsis: Mikasa wins the heart of a playboy who never knew he’d have wanted something so committed with someone like her.

Requested by: @eremika-forever12

Rated: T

Pairings: Mikasa Ackerman / Eren Jaeger

Read it also on / Please Leave a Review at: my Ao3 / FF net (might post there soon.)

A/N: never written this eremika trope before considering as the attack on titan series continues, Eren’s character is further explored and his decisions/character development makes me unable to picture him as stuff like a playboy. But hey, I’m open to trying I guess haha. Albeit admittedly I hated how this turned out as i lost motivation and yeah :/ My apologies dear requester; i hope you’ll enjoy anyway.

Mikasa hadn’t expect for her first kiss to turn out like this, in this sort of accidental predicament, with this person, with her on top of him—literally—on the ground.

Her lips were pressed against the school’s infamous playboy who had his eyes opened widely at her, filled with surprise at how direct she was—but more than anything, his cheeks resembled a ripened tomato while his brain was still processing the entire situation; of the fact that she—someone that he thought that not even someone as smooth as him would ever be able to get her to fall for him—kissed him.

But he wasn’t that dense to not know that it had been an accident, with her tripping, falling; falling onto him.

What he didn’t know, though, was that she hadn’t just fall on him; she had fell for him too.

It started when Mikasa Ackerman transferred to Shiganshina High.

She was fortunate to know someone from that school. That particular someone was a boy named Armin Arlert who just so happened to go to the same math tuition as her.

‘I’ll meet you at the cafeteria before class starts!’ He had texted her, leaving her to wait quietly in the cafeteria where a few students ate their breakfast or were burning the midnight oil as they dipped and curved their pens in a messy rush, desperately trying their utmost best to finish it before the bell rings.

One particular boy caught her attention, though. Sitting a few seats away was a boy who had chestnut coloured hair and green eyes that could’ve come across as striking if only she had a closer view. He wore a pitch-black leather jacket which gave Mikasa the impression that he was those typical boisterous gangsters that went around threatening people to surrender either their lunch money or answers for homework to him. Next to him was a blonde-haired girl with eyes that looked like a lovestruck puppy when he had his arm wrapped around her, and if she had to guess, they were probably flirting.

She looked away shyly, feeling like her eyes shouldn’t linger at what should be a private moment in her opinion. This early in the morning? She thought, sighing. She had heard wonderful things about Shiganshina High and its students from Armin—but it seemed that impression would soon change if there were more ‘bad boys’ like him roaming freely.

“Mikasa!” Armin called, waving his hand to get her attention before approaching and then sitting next to her. “Sorry for being a little late.” He chuckled nervously as he scratched the back of his head.

“No worries.” She assured with a warm smile. “Its good to see a familiar face… especially since I’m the new kid.” She sighed, transferring in the middle of the year wasn’t her cup of tea. But due to family circumstances, she didn’t have much of a choice and being an obedient and filial daughter, she complied without much complaint.

“Yeah. Oh and—” Armin’s cheerful look soon soured into something disgusted that confused Mikasa for a moment. He didn’t seem to be directing that disgust to her, though, but a couple that sat not too far away demonstrating PDA that Armin could only wish he could unsee; so did Mikasa, who turned out of curiosity, to flush and turn back in regret. “A-Are… all students here like th—”

“No.” He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mostly him… that’s Eren Jaeger…”

“Oh.”

“…and its sad to say, he’s a close friend of mine over here.”

“Oh—wait, what?” Mikasa’s eyes widened in bewilderment. She knew Armin enough to be sure that these two boys were most likely living in two different worlds. She found it a little hard to believe that the both of them were best pals, especially after that revolting look he had when watching him making out with who she taught was his girlfriend.

Suddenly, she felt Armin’s hands gripping on both her shoulders, startling her slightly. “A-Armin?”

“Listen to me, Mikasa.” He took a deep breath. “No matter what you do, do not fall for him or his flirtation. Not when… he’s going through this irking playboy phase.”

“P-Playboy?” She stuttered, in disbelief that he was friends with a playboy… and more than anything, she was flustered when he even brought up the idea of her falling for him.

While she was a teenager, Mikasa was yet to have any romantic experience. And by no means did she plan to rush into it. More than anything, her priorities were her studies. Yes, it may be boring. But if she wanted to get into one of the top universities, she didn’t have much of a choice.

“Yes. Playboy.” He shook his head in utter disappointment, as if he was a father that failed to bring up his son right. “He’s a… childhood friend. I don’t know what happened along the way but he became a playboy and I can only hope one day he will stop.” He said.

All the girls who got involved with him knew of his playboy nature, and for the most part, they didn’t care so much of how he would go from one to another when he was bored. Most of them knew getting involved with him meant no commitment.

“What makes you think I’ll fall—”

“It’s just a warning. In case.” He sighed. “He has a… way with his words. Only a few people aren’t swayed by it.” He shrugged. “But he’s a good friend, so give him a chance. For the most part, I already told him about you and to leave you alone. I don’t know if he’ll listen, though.”

Mikasa had never seen Armin so done with life (or more specifically, the wild, playboy heart of Eren) until now. It was amusing, but a little worrying.

“If he bothers you, just tell me, okay?” The bell rang at the same time Mikasa nodded her head. “Yeah… don’t worry. I’m not looking for romance, anyway.” She assured.

Besides… I don’t think I’d ever fall for someone like him.

“So, you’re the Mikasa Ackerman huh?” Eren grabbed a chair, sitting himself right in front of her desk with both his arms invading a small space on her desk to rest. “The girl Armin told me about?” He queried curiously. It was break-time now, and the first time he approached her.

“Eren.” Armin couldn’t believe he had the audacity to slide right in with eyes that screamed his intentions right in front of him. “Don’t.”

“Gee, Armin, chill. I’m not doing anything.” Eren raised his hands, innocently surrendering for a brief moment before his eyes found himself fixating with her greyish hues.

“Yes… I am.” She mumbled, her own pair of eyes staring right at his to realise that yes, they were indeed as striking as she had thought. And on top of that, they had a sort of allure that were trying to draw her in more and more, trying to get her hypnotised and immersed. However, before she could, she looked away right back at her book.

Eren smirked. “Eh? Why are you looking away?” He asked with a tone so gentle, but it sounded awfully playful. His hands raised, two fingers walking close to her hand that fidgeted with a pen. “I don’t want to have a beauty like you hating me…” He mumbled, his hands finding its way to hold hers softly, causing Mikasa to flinch, let go of the pen and snap her head up right at him.

“B-beauty?” She stuttered. That was a first.

“Yea—ow!” He screeched, and let go of her hand while turning behind to see Armin with a rolled-up paper that was just used to smack his head.

“Eren.” He cautioned again, and it amused Mikasa that the brunette that had acted all slick and brave around her was suddenly looking a little fearful and nervous when he saw Armin’s stern, furious and protective look. It was a stark contrast to the bad boy image she originally had of him earlier, and she couldn’t help but let out a chuckle that didn’t come across unnoticed to both of them.

“Why are you laughing?” Eren huffed, sounding rather defeated before he stood up, hands shoving itself in his pocket as he turned away embarrassedly. “gee Armin, ruining the mome—” He saw the blonde rolling the paper tighter and shot his hand up in defeat. “Okay, okay! Ah, whatever! I’m late for a date with some other brunette anyway.” He grumbled before walking off, casting one final glance at Mikasa. “See ya around, Mika.” He nodded before he left.

“ ‘Mika’?” Mikasa murmured to herself, before meeting a pair of blue eyes that looked at her with both concern and disappointment.

“…What?”

Armin crossed his arms. “Do not fall for him.” He said before slumping onto the seat that Eren sat on earlier. “I saw you blushing.”

And the pink rose back up to her cheeks when Armin brought it up. “I… It’s just a first for me. Someone… flirting with me and calling me… that.” She answered shyly, and Armin sighed. “Well, you’re not the first nor will you be the last person he ever calls that.” He spoke, “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Those who actually, genuinely fall for him get hurt when faced with rejection. You heard him, he’s going on a ‘date’ with some brunette when he was making out with some blonde earlier…”

Mikasa nodded. Armin is right, she thought. He is a playboy… do I really want to…?

Besides. She reasoned with herself. I just met him. I don’t… really like him in that sense. He just caught me off guard with that… look and his tone. I feel so silly.

“I understand.” Mikasa sighed. “On a different note, it’s hard to believe the two of you are friends… does he leave you alone for his ‘dates’?” She asked, a small concern rising in her.

“Nah. He hanged with me more often before you came. He’s just ‘freer’ now since you’re here to keep me company.” He laughed lightly, “He’s more loyal as a friend, trust me.” He paused for a bit, and then sighed. “I hope he’d make time for you, as in, talk to you under a more friendly circumstance. He’s different, as a friend.”

And what Armin said was proved to be true two days later when he found himself sick at home with the flu.

Aside from Armin, she hadn’t made any other friends since she was still new. (She wasn’t sure if she could count Eren, since she didn’t really talk to him considering he was too pre-occupied with his ‘dates’).

She found herself huddled alone at a quiet corner in the school’s library during their break, with textbooks scattered around the table she occupied as she did her work.

The last thing she expected was for a brunette to come crashing in, legs crossed, with a smile, sitting right next to her. “Yo.” He greeted, startling Mikasa a little who gave him an odd look.

“…Hey?” She greeted back, confused by his presence. She could’ve sworn he was fooling with a girl in the morning, and had plans to continue later during breaktime. So, she hadn’t expected him to be here, and Eren took notice. “Am I not welcomed?” He asked.

“No… its not that.” She looked away, back at the annoying question she had been stuck on for a little too long. “I just… thought you had a ‘date’.”

“Eh, things don’t go as planned.” Was the only answer he gave her, and Mikasa didn’t care enough to pry. Little did she know, he cancelled his plans to keep her company upon finding out Armin was sick with the flu. While Armin didn’t request that of him, he took it upon himself because he didn’t want her to feel lonely on her first few days in school.

And while they didn’t interact a lot, he considered her a friend (even after the little flirtatious stunt he tried to pull) since she was a friend of Armin’s. She seemed like a nice girl, anyway.

“Oh.” She said, and Eren noticed that she seemed a little tensed, as if she were leaving her walls and guard up. He couldn’t blame her. He was sure Armin gave her long lectures of his… playboy nature. And while that side of him did want to play with her, since it had been a while when he last ‘dated’ the studious type, he was sure Armin would kill him.

And most of all, Eren Jaeger didn’t want to get involved romantically with girls who sought actual commitment. He didn’t want to be a heartbreaker. But at the same time, he couldn’t stay still.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hit on you.” Eren sighed, and Mikasa looked at him, confused.

“Why’d you hit me…?”

Eren looked at her, amused at her confusion, and laughed as quietly as he could since they were in a library. “It means flirt.”

“O-Oh…” She looked away embarrassedly, and it took every ounce of effort for Eren not to continue teasing because heaven forbid the terrors Armin would bring upon him if even thought of leading her on too much.

“Yeah. Armin would kill me. I still have my youth ahead, can’t let that happen.” He said. “On a different note, is this what you do in your free time?” He asked, and his tone ticked off Mikasa a little; it felt a little insulting. “Just study? Even when you’re with Armin, I still see you studying with him sometimes.”

It was something people back in her old school often said to her before calling her things like boring and plain jane. It ticked her off, but she ignored them. Besides, she had a small friend group there to hang around anyway.

“I want to get into one of the top universities.” She defended herself, even though Eren wasn’t exactly attacking her. “So, if I can study then… yeah.”

“No need to get defensive.” Eren assured, “I understand that sentiment. Armin’s kinda like that too.” He spoke. “But you know, you can let loose every now and then.”

Mikasa raised a brow. “Let loose like you? Mr playboy.”

Now, Eren felt insulted. But then again, touché. “That’s not what I mean.” He shook his head and huffed. “Gee, what happened to that shy, easily flustered girl I saw the other day?”

Mikasa flinched, and found herself turning into that easily flustered girl again when Eren brought up how she was so easily swayed by his little compliment. “…Do you want me to call Armin?”

Now, Eren flinched and his shoulders tensed and the next thing Mikasa knew, his eyes looked at her apologetically and desperately while his tone weakened, sounding defeated and pleading. “Please, don’t.” He begged. “He’ll kill me with that rolled up paper.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Mikasa chuckled lightly, “…Underneath that bad-boy and playboy persona, you seem…” She paused for a bit, and then laughed quietly to herself at the first word that came to her mind.

“Seem like what?” His brows furrowed.

“Oh, nothing…”

He grew a little childish—a side only a few got to see. “Eh?? Don’t leave me hanging like that!” His voice was slowly raising and Mikasa instantly hushed him.

“We’re in a library, remember?” She reminded, and noticed him pouting slightly. “Yeah, yeah…” he grumbled, “What are you studying now, anyway?”

Mikasa’s focus switched back to her paper. “Chemistry… I’m not too good at it.”

“Really?” Eren said, as he moved a little closer to take a peek at the question she was stuck at. “Ah… the mol concept. It’s hard but… I can help you with this question. The answer is 3.8 mol, right?”

“Yeah…” Mikasa sounded a little surprised, resulting Eren to frown a little as he could guess what she was thinking.

“Look, not all bad boys or playboys are dumb-bells.” He huffed. “I happen to know—”

“No, no its not that…” Mikasa resisted a chuckle. “Armin just… told me you were failing.”

“Only in literature! Who the heck understands olden English language! I mean no offense to Shakespeare—”

“Shhh! Eren, we’re in a library remember?” It was only then Eren noticed the glares he was receiving from the people in the library, especially from the bookworms and librarians… and some of the girls who he ‘dated’.

Hell, did he have a bad sense of timing.

And then he heard a soft chuckle, turning around he saw Mikasa laughing lightly at him again and somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself to interrupt her again. And it was not because of the glares that were still shot at him.

Perhaps it was his playboy nature getting the best of him, but… he found her a little cute when she smiled and laughed.

One thing happened after the other, and Eren and Mikasa found themselves having study sessions together, with Eren helping her with chemistry and Mikasa helping him with literature.

Armin had been a little suspicious of this turn in events, since the last thing he thought that playboy would ever do in his free time was to have an actual study date, without the date aspect in it. However, upon joining a few of their study sessions at either Eren’s or Mikasa’s home, he realised that Eren could in fact, keep his hands and (in his opinion, sometimes cringey) smooth-talk to himself. It was surprising, definitely.

Although, it didn’t mean Eren didn’t tease Mikasa every now and then (especially when Armin wasn’t around to smack him).

And it didn’t mean his actual ‘dates’ came to a halt, there were a few times he skipped out studying and went on to have some fun.

But as days went by, unknowingly, those dates started to come to gradual decrease when he found Mikasa’s company… genuinely enjoyable—enjoyable in a way that no other girl gave him.

“Do you ever plan to stop being a playboy?” Mikasa scoffed at the brunette when he arrived at her home a little late than the scheduled time she had planned for their study session to start. While Armin was still running late, he had a reasonable reason which involved the bus he was on being caught in traffic. Whereas Eren, was on a date.

“I’m sorry.” He apologised for the tenth time, knowing that she was still irritated at the fact he lost track of time in the midst of his fun. “I mean, not really. It’s fun. You just don’t get it.” He said with a shrug, earning an eyeroll from the raven who just couldn’t understand why.

“Don’t you feel bad when you break someone’s heart?” She always felt a little iffy to Eren’s playboy habits.

“I always cut things off if I realise the girl is actually having real feelings.” He paused. “Otherwise, I just fool around. I’m just in it for the thrill.”

Mikasa raised a brow. Honestly, like what Armin had said, she hoped this was just a passing phase. “Yeah, yeah…” She sighed as she opened up her notes.

“What about you?” He asked. “Went on a date before?”

She flinched. “I…no.” She looked away timidly. “Studying is… enough.”

“Ehhh? You’re missing out on youth, Mika!” He exclaimed, before a mischievous look rose up to his face. “With such a pretty face…” He leaned in slightly, and if Armin had been there, he’d probably immediately withdraw his statement about him being able to keep his hands to himself. “You should be able find yourself a man like me—mmf!”

Mikasa pushed her notebook right up in his face, he was too close.

And a part of her hated how he gave her compliments like that, because it felt shallow with that smug, playboy tone of his. She hated how it’d make her feel flustered (and admittedly, a little happy) because he was definitely smooth with his words, especially when Armin wasn’t there to regulate his habits.

But she also liked it. The teasing; some of which she’d even return with her own playful taunts if she had the courage and wasn’t a flustering mess. It was all a first. Maybe that’s why she never exactly stopped him completely.

Maybe she just hated the fact it was all probably half-hearted, and he said all these things because he was a playboy who just enjoyed seeing girls getting all pink and red for him. Another reason why she hadn’t stop him because at least he knew his boundaries. He never touched her inappropriately nor did he ever push her to be his next new fun—and she doubted he even wanted her to be.

They were friends after all.

Friends… She thought. After spending all this time with him, something about labelling him as a friend made her feel… discontented. And she didn’t know why; not yet.

“You say that to everyone.” She sighed, and while her notebook blocked his face, she still averted her gaze away. “Everyone seems to have a pretty face to you…” It was only when she said the last sentence out loud, did she realise there was a hint of envy in her speech. She didn’t understand why.

“…Too far?” Eren asked, sounding less teasing and more serious as he gently took away the notebook that blocked her face. Honestly, Eren didn’t even know why he was teasing her (sometimes, a little more than he should in his opinion—but he made sure to never cross the line.), he didn’t plan to make her his new source of fun. That was the least of his intentions. Maybe it was because he found her reactions cute, and irresistible; and that became his fuel to joke with her every now and then.

Eren looked at her, at how her cheeks flushed and the timid look she wore as her eyes avoided contact with his. He made a mental note to dial down the teasing, but was quite reluctant.

Albeit, he rather do that than lose the friendship he forged with Mikasa in the past couple of months.

“No, not that. It’s just… I don’t know.” What am I even saying? Mikasa didn’t even know anymore, nor did she know why Eren’s eyes were suddenly fixated on her, looking at her with such softness and fondness.

“…You’re beautiful.” He suddenly confessed.

What? Was he pulling her leg?

Silence briefly engulfed the air, and Mikasa clenched her fist tightly before she forced herself to fill it.

“You’re just saying tha—”

“I’m being serious.” He cut her off.

She was beautiful. Her eyes, her smile, her cute facial expressions—but most of all, her heart. It was beautiful. She had been nothing less than nice to him the entire time. He had gotten to know her better through their study sessions; and sometimes they’d text and call afterwards. Eren hadn’t even notice he began to take less calls from his flings, answered less messages from them. Through the time they spent together, he had found out there were more things common between them than he had first thought. Through the time spent together, he made a friend that he could consider was as close to him as Armin was to him. The only difference was, after all the time he spent with her as a friend, he began to sub-consciously want something more with her. He wanted to have something with her; but it wasn’t the same way he wanted—or use to want the other girls in his life. And he was only realising this now.

“I…” He sounded serious, Mikasa knew and found it hard to react to because he had always been so cheery with her. Albeit yes, there were times when he was down and she of course, comforted him. But this was different.

What exactly was he insinuating?

“I…” Flustered and unsure of what to say, she immediately stood up, turned around. She needed a moment to leave; to have with herself and sort out the sudden fluttery feelings that accumulated in her stomach “I got to—”

Eren, thinking she wanted to leave because he said something stupid, immediately grabbed her arm to stop her. “Wait! I-I didn’t mean to—”

Startled by his grip, she turned back around a little too quickly, her toes bumping and tripping on the foot of the table, and suddenly she lost balance.

Everything happened so fast, and the next thing Mikasa knew was that she had fallen right on top with Eren. Lips pressed against each other.

It was Mikasa’s first kiss. She felt her heart skip a beat before it began to race in a damn marathon. She couldn’t steady the palpitations of her heart, nor could she control the redness that illuminated her cheeks.

And she didn’t want to push away. She didn’t want to let go or remove herself from this awkward position.

Both their eyes were wide, staring at each other’s orbs; a stare that soon melted down to an admiring gaze upon realising that a particular feeling they had was mutual. However, before either of them even dared making the first move, dared deepen the kiss, a blonde burst open the door.

“Hey Mikasa! Eren! Sorry I was late. The traffic—” He stopped himself, and was utterly shocked and caught off guard by the two teenagers with their bodies almost entangled with one another, with their lips pressed against one another.

A glare slowly came forth. “EREN?!”

Mikasa had a crush on Eren.

Mikasa had a crush on a damn playboy.

Whatever happened after Armin stormed in was all blur, all she recalled was them separating, leaving and not talking about it; the kiss. The feelings.

How did it happen? Mikasa didn’t know. Armin had already made it clear to her that getting involved with Eren Jaeger as a friend was fine, but getting involved with him as something romantic was the last thing someone who wanted commitment should even consider.

Mikasa didn’t like how Eren would approach, flirt, make a move and then made out with girls; at first she thought it was because, like Armin, it was agitating to some extent watching him fooling around, as well as being a fool sometimes. Little did she know that when time went by, the more time she spent with Eren personally as a friend, did she realise she wanted—she desired something more with him. He was a different person when he was with her. Admittedly, he did throw in occasional flirts from time-to-time, but more than that, behind the playboy persona he had in school, he was a sweet and kind boy (who can be reckless sometimes; but that’s a different and another story.) when he was alone with her.

Little did she know that agitation she felt soured into envy; because she wanted something from him that she didn’t think she’d ever get.

She hadn’t spoken to him since their accidental kiss, the weekend was awfully silent, and it went by quick with only texts from Armin who checked on her after that… incident.

He’ll never like me back. She thought, recalling all the girls he fooled around with; the ‘phase’ he was going through. At least, not in the way I want him to. Not in the same way I like…

Her cheeks flushed just thinking about it. However, all her flustered emotions soon spiralled down into one thing: sorrow.

She didn’t want to be his next one-time fling. She wanted to be by his side, as something more than a friend.

“But that’s not going to happen…” She murmured to herself, reflecting to all the flings he had; how wild and (sometimes) crazy they were. She was no match. Besides, she doubted Eren actually liked her back. Why would he? He seemed like he was having fun with all the other girls, so why would he want to settle for someone as plain and boring as her?

Whatever the case, she couldn’t avoid him now. The weekend went by in the blink of an eye and now, she was entering the school’s gates (albeit, a little tentatively). Just… act normal. She thought to herself. It’s just a kiss. Eren has… kissed tons of other girls before. No… big deal. He probably didn’t think much about it either…

She had resigned to accepting Eren as her silent crush; she didn’t think he could ever be hers, not when he was a playboy.

At that time, Mikasa didn’t know nor noticed how the time Eren spent with her had increased—and that was why their bond grew stronger during the time they spent together. She had eventually gotten accustomed to it.

And most of all, she didn’t know that Eren threw away all his other time with his flings just to spend more time with her.

Eren received an earful from Armin once he somehow, successfully dragged him out of Mikasa’s house.

“It was an accident!” Eren retorted, defensive. “You saw, didn’t you?! I didn’t make the move! She was on t-…” It was unusual for him to hesitate, or even get this flustered when talking about girls making the first move on him; much less them being assertive—

“She tripped and fell!” He groaned, looking away from the blonde who was practically glaring daggers right at him; or maybe he was trying to burn a hole right at his chest. Either one of them.

After a long conversation with both of them going back and forth, Armin sighed and decided to believe Eren. He wouldn’t lie to him… at least, not to this extent. “Fine. But you better apologise to her the next time you see her.” He grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t sure how Mikasa was doing; he for one knew romantic relationships was unfamiliar territory to her. To think that her first kiss was stolen by a playboy sounded quite unfortunate, in his opinion at least.

Well, at least Mikasa didn’t fall for Eren (metaphorically), at least. It wasn’t like she had a crush on him; and that was why she found her on top of him, right? He didn’t want her getting hurt, after all, Eren wasn’t the type to stay still when it came to girls. So—

“…And also…” He started to speak, breaking Armin’s thoughts off. “There’s… something I should tell you.” He bit his lip, knowing that he was going to get another painful earful once those words left his lips. “I… like Mikasa.”

Armin instantly halted in his steps, turned towards Eren, stared, and wondered if this was some sick joke of his. “I’m not joking.” He added, as if he had read Armin’s mind.

“Eren.” His tone grew menacing, “I swear. I don’t bother you and your damned playboy life because that isn’t my business. But, if you—”

“I don’t want Mikasa to be a one-time fling.” He specified, eying his friend with a solemn and serious look. “I… I’m serious.” He softened. What had Mikasa done to him? “I…I want to be serious with her.”

Armin arched a brow, arms crossed. He clearly wasn’t convinced; not yet at least. “So the infamous playboy at Shiganshina High just suddenly want to quit his playboy lifestyle?” Sure, love can change people. Armin knew that. But he had to be sure he wasn’t mistaking his feelings. “Then tell me, Eren. Convince me. It’s hard to believe that you suddenly… like her. That you want her as something more than a normal fling.” He paused briefly. “What makes you think you like her?”

Embarrassing and as flustering as it was, Eren began to tell. And Armin hadn’t expected for him to sound so genuine.

Mikasa awaited behind the school, as what Eren’s note indicated. She didn’t expect the first interaction she’d have with Eren after that accidental kiss was through a piece of paper he left underneath her table. Throughout the entire day, he hadn’t even batted an eye at her at all. Is he avoiding me? She thought, biting her lip nervously. Even during lunch, he left—and Mikasa could only assume he went to continue fooling around. I should’ve known better. He isn’t going to like me back…

When she asked Armin, he only shrugged and refused to say anything. That only made her worry worsen.

Why did Eren call her to meet him at the back of the school? Did he… plan to cut ties with her? Did Armin become too protective? Was that why he didn’t say anything?

Anxiousness overwhelmed her, and despite her colourful grades, she cursed at herself for being so stupid, foolish and most of all clumsy for tripping and kissing him. What was worst was that she didn’t even immediately pull away.

I can’t believe you, Mikasa. She thought to herself. You—

Her thoughts were instantly interrupted when she heard footsteps heading her way. Her head snapped up and she watched as a brunette, whose emerald orbs only took a glimpse at her, before averting away back to the ground, made his way towards her.

She watched, and didn’t say a thing.

Even when Eren was finally standing just a foot away from her, she kept quiet; her eyes looking away on the ground. Her heart starting to race again and she hated that it did.

I should just let go. I should just let go. It’s a silly crush. She thought as the silence between them prolonged. I should say something since I was the one who—

“Listen, Mikasa…” He said in a solemn tone, and Mikasa flinched, eyes looking up once again, meeting his emerald hues that now looked her way. “I…”

As Mikasa waited for Eren to deliver his speech, she anticipated and braced herself for the worst.

“I like you!”

Wait, what?

She noticed his cheeks reddening, his clenched fist as he forced himself to continue, “I… like you.” He repeated once again, but slower. The next thing he knew, he was pouring his entire heart out. “But its different from all the other girls I fooled around with. I don’t know how—I mean I know how, like after all the time we spent together as friends I found that you were quite enjoyable to be with even if you have your nose in a book for the most part…and then I started to… want to spend more time with you rather than fooling around I… I don’t know how to explain it but something about you just…” He took a deep breath, “It’s different.”

“I thought I just wanted to be closer friends with you and that was why I hang around you more often but then after that… accidental kiss, it all clicked. It felt different than all the other girls I…” He babbled on and on, his cheeks reddening after each flustering statement he made about how his feelings differed for her when compared to the other girls he fooled with. How he wanted something more with her.

He had gotten Armin’s blessing after he told him how he truly felt for Mikasa. “But whether or not she wants an actual relationship with you is up to her.” The blonde sighed, “You have quite the dirty, playboy reputation after all.”—and what he said was right.

Why would Mikasa want to be with a playboy like him? Would she even trust his words? Would she trust him? Give him a chance?

He hadn’t exactly been in a long-term relationship before.

“…and I understand if you don’t want to be with me… in that way.” He lowered his head, biting his lip. “I mean since I’ve… fooled around a lot and… you might not trust me and… I mean I deleted all their numbers already and cut ties… but… I understand if you still distrust me, however, I just… want to let you know…and I… hope you give me a chance.” He had always been direct, confident and barely ever paused or stammered in between his sentences and yet here he was.

A mess.

He didn’t dare lift his head, and stood there, frozen and silent while he waited for her response.

However, as the silence prolonged, he could’ve already guessed her answer.

No. It was going to be a rejection; that wouldn’t be a first, he had experienced those but none as heart-breaking as this.

And then what’d happen to their friendship? For what its worth, he hoped that they could remain friends. He liked her company. He didn’t want it to be over.

If she was by his side, even if it was just as a friend and not a lover, he’d be fine. He just wanted her—

“…Yes.” Came a soft voice, and Eren snapped his head back up in utter surprise; but his surprise was no match for Mikasa.

To think he’d confess to her. Mikasa hadn’t expect that. While she felt relieved, he didn’t invite her here to break their friendship or ask her to be one his part-time girlfriends, she was at first, undeniably stunned at his sudden confession.

Stunned, but happy. And Eren didn’t manage to see how flushed her cheeks became when he had looked away earlier, how her lips parted but she was still struggling to find proper words to articulate a respond.

She had so many things to say to him—but all of them came out in the form of a singular word.

“Yes.”

He sounded genuine, and she hadn’t seen Eren this flustered before and in his emerald hues she saw nothing but pure, raw honesty when he was pouring out his feelings. To think that she was able to make a playboy to change his ways was shocking even to her.

Eren stared at her, in disbelief. And before he could react ecstatically to this, he was caught off guard when the raventte suddenly leaned towards him, hands cupping his cheek as she (this time, not accidentally), crashed her lips against his.

Blushing furiously, shoulders tensed, Eren looked down at the raven who had her lips pressed against his. Since when was she that direct?

However, he eventually found his shoulders relaxing, his hands tracing down and wrapping around her waist as he found himself returning the kiss.

“Well, at least his phase is finally over.” Armin sighed quietly to himself, having watched the entire scene unfold from an empty classroom’s window before looking away as he continued to pack his bag. “…I wonder how Mikasa’s brother going to react to her dating an ex-playboy, though.”

#i hate this its so rushed omg gah #Eremika #eremika fanfic #snk #aot #snk fanfic #aot fanfic #attack on titan fanfic #shingeki no kyojin fanfic #aot fanfiction #Eren #Eren jaeger #Mikasa #Mikasa Ackerman #My fanfic

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