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#but i settled on two for mirth because the other titles were leaning either too far into Literature
willowiswriting · 3 years
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i meant to post that wip intro yesterday, but i straight up couldnt come up with a title for the book. anyway, i’m gonna be posting the prologue sometime soon, i think. thank y’all for all the reblogs/likes/nice comments you give my wips, i feed on them like a vampire and they keep me young. <3
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biwenqing · 3 years
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Tang Yu's musings about her brother's relationship with Wang Zhi. For day five of Spring Sleuthing for the prompt "thaw" which I also took as the title for this little fic.
General | One-shot | wc: 1601 | ao3 link
Tang Yu often brought Cheng’er over to spend time with his uncle. Uncles really, because Tang Yu had the distinct sense that her brother had found a life partner in Sui Zhou. She liked Sui Zhou a lot and knew he treated her brother and Dong’er very well.
She could see it now as she was sitting with Tang Fan and Cheng’er at the table, eating the lunch Sui Zhou had prepared. Sui Zhou and Dong’er were either still in the kitchen, working on some treats for later, or had gone off to practice self-defense. She had heard Dong’er was making great progress in hand-to-hand fighting.
Tang Fan was helping Cheng’er with some of his school work. Her son was doing so much better with the proper attention and care, and Tang Yu found herself feeling lighter and happier. Tang Fan seemed to be able to understand what worked best for his nephew to learn and Cheng’er had taken quite a liking to him.
Cheng’er had just finished copying a line when they were interrupted as Wang Zhi walked into her brother’s home as if he owned the place. He then sat at the table at Tang Fan’s side, the one not currently occupied by Cheng’er, and put some papers on the table.
Tang Fan made a face at the uninvited guest. “Who let you in?”
“Dong’er,” Wang Zhi rolled his eyes, now helping himself to Tang Fan’s plate. “Will you look at this?”
“Do I have a choice?” Tang Fan said, surprising Tang Yu by not snatching his food back. Instead, he was picking up the papers, sorting through them. “Sorry Cheng’er, we can finish later, if that’s okay?”
Cheng’er nodded vigorously, and Tang Yu knew he was just excited to not have to do any more of his lessons. Just because he was getting better at his lessons, didn’t mean he enjoyed them.
“Carefully clean up okay?” Tang Yu instructed, not rolling her eyes at either of their antics. She could tell her brother’s attention had completely drifted and wouldn’t come back anytime soon.
Her good boy nodded, more subdued this time, and began to carefully put the paper and inks away, carrying the brushes off to be washed.
“You think these murders are related to grain taxes?” Tang Fan was asking Wang Zhi.
Tang Yu decided to linger and watch them, using finishing up her lunch as an excuse. Reaching to grab more vegetables, Tang Yu found Wang Zhi’s chopsticks already there. He moved away, leaving her to grab what she wanted, turning his attention back to Tang Fan as if he never reached anything.
Tang Yu didn’t fully understand Wang Zhi. She knew the kind of person he was, in the sense that all people knew of who those inside of the palace became. Yet for some reason Wang Zhi had been pulled into her brother’s orbit. It increasingly seemed... more than that. Here now, they were in each other’s personal space and seemed to share more touches than necessary.
When she had mentioned it to her Huai, he had shaken his head. “You know your brother would never betray his partner like that! Sui Zhou especially.”
Tang Yu did know that. Her brother had a good and fair heart that just wasn’t made to do something so cruel as cheat. But that didn’t mean she was wrong in her observations. Her point was proven to herself now, as Sui Zhou came into the room, drying his hands on his apron.
Tang Fan spotted him and launched into the deductions he and Wang Zhi had so far. Sui Zhou nodded, coming to lean in between Wang Zhi and Tang Fan. The two were already sitting close, so this only reduced any distance further. Most telling were Sui Zhou’s hands, settling between each of their shoulder blades.
Tang Yu felt that by now she had gotten to know Sui Zhou well and knew he was a man who was rather restrained in his affection. There were certainly other meanings to such affection, but this added with her observations of her brother, Tang Yu was pretty certain what was going on here. Or where things were headed.
Which brought up some questions for her, even if it was not her place. The first maybe should have been “Why Wang Zhi?” but Tang Yu was more concerned about the fact that her brother hadn’t told her what was going on. She assumed the “why him?” question would be answered if her brother actually talked to her about whatever this was.
Wang Zhi apparently felt her gaze, because he glanced up. Even if she didn’t know what to think of him, Tang Yu didn’t want to come in the way of whatever happiness her brother tried to find, so she looked away. Finishing her food, she went about clearing the table. Sui Zhou shot her a thankful smile which she returned, slipping out of the room to leave them to their work.
After doing the dishes she went back to call out to Tang Fan. “I need to go help my husband with a procedure, remember? Can you still watch Cheng’er.”
“Of course!” Tang Fan appeared, smiling. “Though... where do you think he went off to?”
“Probably got distracted in your study,” Tang Yu smiled. They both went to find him, examining some art and trying to copy it. She got to say goodbye once she kissed Cheng’er’s forehead.
[...]
When Tang Yu came back that evening, she was tired but pleased by the work she had been able to do helping Pei Huai. She saved the feeling of having a purpose and the support for that purpose outside of the housework she had been expected to do in her past marriage.
She wandered through the house, looking for where Cheng’er had gotten off too, hopefully with Tang Fan nearby. What she came upon was a scene that made her pause. Trying to be quiet and unseen, she watched.
Apparently, Wang Zhi was still there. He was seated at a little table, Dong’er across from him. They seemed to be playing a game of go. Cheng’er was perched on Wang Zhi’s knee, an arm carefully around his waist so he wouldn’t fall. It seemed as if Wang Zhi and Dong’er were explaining the game to him as they played.
The more she watched them, the more she got it; some of her previous questions were answered. Tang Fan had seen through Wang Zhi in a way she had not, in a way most people wouldn’t.
“He’s good with children.” Sui Zhou’s voice was soft so that those playing go would not hear. He caused Tang Yu to jump, and she turned to give him a surprised look.
“So it would seem...” Tang Yu felt a bit guilty for being caught spying. And that she had been judging Wang Zhi without knowing the truth of the matter.
Sui Zhou didn’t call her out, his focus turning to where she had been watching. Cheng’er let out loud laughter and Tang Yu watched as Wang Zhi made sure her son didn’t topple over in his mirth. Tang Yu glanced at Sui Zhou and saw one of his small, but genuine, smiles.
She bit back the questions she wanted to ask. It wasn’t her business and if it was, she should talk to her brother anyway. She had to smile though when she noticed Sui Zhou caught her once more, and seemed to be laughing at her.
Better than being upset.
“Are you going to stay for dinner?” Sui Zhou asked.
“If it’s not too much trouble. Pei Huai will also join.”
“No trouble,” Sui Zhou nodded, turning to probably go prepare.
“Do you need any help?” she asked, reaching out a hand.
“If you want.”
“Let me just check in with Cheng’er,” she said and turned to enter the room she had been spying into.
The three occupants looked up as she entered. Cheng’er excitedly pointed at the board. “I’m playing go!”
“I can see that,” Tang Yu came over and crouched down to have a better look at the game.
“It’s the only way to beat Dong’er,” Wang Zhi said. “I needed another brilliant mind to help me.”
Cheng’er tipped his head back to smile up at Wang Zhi at the praise.
Dong’er laughed at this, but said, “Cheng’er has started to understand a lot of the rules.”
Tang Yu glanced at the board. She had a feeling that Dong’er was throwing the game so that Cheng’er could win. From her own understanding, it looked like a very strategic loss. “Well I don’t want to bother you, I just wanted to say hi before going to help Sui Zhou.” She met Wang Zhi’s eyes and hoped he understood this was also a check-in to make sure he was fine continuing to entertain the kids. “Everyone good?”
“We need snacks!” Dong’er reported.
“You’ll spoil your appetite before dinner,” Wang Zhi admonished, but rather gently. She stuck her tongue out at him. “We’ll be fine.” This he directed back to Tang Yu and even gave her a tentative smile.
Did she intimidate the feared commander of the Western Depot? The thought brought a smile to her own face and she slipped from the room, calling back, “Be good!”
“We will!” Cheng’er yelled after her.
Tang Yu made her way back through the house, she decided she certainly would accept Wang Zhi into the family her brother collected. She could always welcome another little brother.
For two orphans, she and Tang Fan had a lot of family.
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revasserium · 4 years
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Can I request B.62 for Sakusa, if you write for him. Thank you 😄
hq!!reqs currently: closed 
(i adjusted numbering for the second prompt list; i hope i got the prompt right, if not, feel free to request the actual number 62 for him!)
123. seductive danger sakusa; 1,842 words 
you wouldn’t call him seductive, per se – though you supposed that the face mask could be a thing for some people. anything can be a thing for some people – rules of the internet and all. but he doesn’t go out of his way to pander to his loyal legions of fans (read: oikawa). and he really does have legions of them. 
going pro has only exacerbated the issue, much to his dismay. 
“no respect for personal space,” he mumbles one day as he’s carted into a dark van with tinted windows, having ducked out of the gym through one of the back exits. 
you glance up at him from over your phone. 
“hazards of being a famous volleyball player,” you chime. 
he only huffs. tugging his hood up over his head, and punching the recline button till he’s almost lying flat, his legs bent slightly against the seat in front of him. he really is a bit too tall sometimes. especially for japan, it’s not really well designed for people over the height of 6ft, and he’s well. more than that. 
you’d been friends for as long as you can remember, both a little on the quiet side as children, both with weird obsessions (him with his germs, you with your color coordination), both a little too odd for the normal kids to play with. neither of you had minded. because after all, you’d found each other, right? 
still, it was a bit strange, seeing your best friend grow into a household name, this title, this team. it’s strange, seeing his face on the side of busses or blown up on the big screens flashing over shibuya crossing, endorsing some random item or other (you’ve still no idea what sunscreen’s got to do with volleyball – they play the indoor kind). still stranger when he appeared on a list of the sexiest athletes in all of japan, narrowly missing out on the top four courtesy of kageyama, ushijima, and the miya twins. you remember wondering how on earth the second miya twin made it onto the list when he’s known mainly for selling onigiri, but you suppose that people do like their things in sets sometimes. that’s a thing for people too, right? twins. 
you’d never thought about sakusa that way before that article came out. and sure, you’d been pestered by some friends during highschool for his number, but it’d been funny then. it was less so now when hoards of screaming girls seemed to appear at every function he goes to (it’s not many, but he has to get sponsorships somehow), scrambling over each other for a glimpse of him. 
but sexy?
“how was practice?” you ask, eyes dropping back onto some article about how volleyball interest in japan has reached an all-time high. 
he makes a noncommittal sort of grunting noise before heaving a deep sigh. 
“it was grueling, as per usual. but i’m getting better at ball control on my spikes, which is good.” 
you quirk an eyebrow, “even more ball control than you already have you mean.” 
he turns towards you with an amused grin. 
(oh, well, there’s something you don’t see often.) 
“you can always have more control.” 
you suppose it’s because you’ve just been thinking about the article, but you can’t help lingering on his smile, the double entendre in his words. a prickle of heat crawls up your neck and you quickly look back down to your phone again, scrolling through for something else to read. something to divert your attention from how his knee is pressed against yours in the backseat of this van that had seemed much larger only moments ago. 
now, it seems to be shrinking in around you, the space between you getting smaller and smaller. 
you lick your lips. 
“what’re you thinkin’ about?” 
your eyes shoot up again. it’s not like him to ask many questions of this variety (about volleyball though, don’t even get his started), if any, but the way he’s looking at you makes your heart stutter in your chest. 
“nothing. why?” you retort, a little too quickly, and you watch as sakusa’s eyebrow travels up the expanse of his forehead till it’s in danger of disappearing completely into his hairline. 
“because you’re making a face.” 
“what face?” 
he leans in suddenly, squinting at you, your noses almost brushing. 
your breath catches in your chest, your thoughts derail like speeding trains, crashing into the unexplored wilds of your mind – you note that he smells like hand sanitizer and lavender soap. you remember that you’d gotten him a large bottle of it for christmas – he’s always running out of soap. 
“that face,” he says, his face still much too close to yours. 
from here, you can see the individual lashes framing his darkened eyes, and you watch as they dilate, like two pinprick black holes, ready to devour whatever comes into their path. the way he’s looking at you makes your skin go hot, hotter than it was before, hotter than when you’ve just stepped out of a shower, your skin steaming from the blistering water. you wonder briefly if steam might be coming off of your face right now, because it sure as hell feels hot enough to be. 
“i… i don’t know what you’re talking about.” there’s a breathiness to your voice that makes it sound unbelievable, even to yourself. 
he scoffs, falling back into his seat, his hood falling off his head, leaving his hair delightfully mussed. you resist the urge to run your hand through it, just to see how soft it might be. probably really soft, you think, from all the times you’ve brushed up against it, when he’d fallen asleep with his head on your shoulder in high school, even though he woke up complaining of neck pain because of how much shorter you were. 
“hm. whatever, i’ll figure it out eventually.” 
you sink into your own seat, wishing very briefly for the seat to open up and suck you into the plush cushioning. you nip that thought in the bud. it might lead to sakusa sitting on you one day, and you’d rather not follow that line of thought either. 
“don’t hold your breath,” you mutter beneath your own, but it only makes sakusa round on you again. 
“tell me what it is.” 
you laugh, a little helplessly as he presses into your personal space again. 
“i thought you didn’t like being so close to people.” 
he narrows his eyes. 
“you’re different. you know that. and stop trying to change the subject and tell me what you’re thinking.” 
“it’s nothing!” 
he huffs, “you know i can’t stand not knowing.” 
“it’s –” you flounder, looking for something, anything, to shoehorn into this, “really stupid,” you admit finally, but it does nothing to pacify his curiosity. 
“i don’t care.” 
you curl into yourself even harder than before, eyes flickering around to anything but him. it’s hard, when he’s so close to you he takes up almost your entire field of vision. 
“it’s… it’s just – i was trying to figure out if you’re sexy.” 
he blinks. 
once, twice, three times. 
you hold your breath, unsure of what he might say next. 
but then, he just settles back into his own seat with a contented grin, glancing over at you with a tilt of his head. 
“and?” 
you blink. 
“and what?” 
“am i?” 
“are you?” 
sakusa sighs. 
“sexy.” 
you bite your lips. 
“uh. i haven’t figured that out yet.” 
he regards you with an unreadable expression, his eyes sharp with the kind of concentration you’ve only ever seen on him during matches. to have all that attention focused on you feels like being beneath a concentrated heat of the sun filtered through a magnifying glass. and you’re sure you’re going to combust at any given moment. 
“hm. lemme know if you need further convincing.” 
“what?” 
he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes again. 
“you heard me.” 
“i think my brain glitched.” 
he peaks open one eye to look at you, and this time, you’re sure he’s smirking. 
(well shit. the magazine might be onto something here.) 
“that’s cute.” 
“what is?” 
he pauses for a brief moment, before – 
“your face.” 
you really do think your brain might have glitched then, and the expression on your face must’ve been more revealing than you realized because the next moment, he’s laughing. the kind of laughter that you hear once in a blue moon, when his team somehow manages to drag him out for enough drinks to get him to forget about all the other stuff. all the buzzing that goes on in his brain. 
he’s laughing, and you feel yourself blush to the roots of your hair. 
you reconsider your earlier wish to be swallowed by the seat. it seems perfectly valid again. 
“you’re –!” you try to find a word, something to encompass the torrent of emotions crashing through you, all of which are his fault. 
“yes?” he’s leaning in again, his eyes alight with mirth and something darker, heavier, much more tantalizing. 
“you’re…” 
he licks his lips, and think you can almost hear the sounds of your own wires fraying at the ends. 
“sexy?” he asks, though this time, there’s no laughter in his voice. it’s low, almost gravely as it grounds through his chest. you feel it vibrate through your own chest and it’s all you can do to keep from shivering. 
you swallow, your eyes flickering from his mouth up to his eyes, his pupils now blown wide enough to swallow his entire iris. 
you nod, slowly, despite yourself. and he grins. 
“good,” he says, his voice still low and soft and, dare you say it, seductive. 
“glad you got there first. i was gonna have to kiss you next.” 
he almost pulls away but you suck in a breath. 
“kiss me anyway.” 
he pauses; his eyes going an infinitesimal wider at your words. a second later, he’s leaning in close, close, even closer. his breath fans out over your lips and you let your eyes fall shut. 
he kisses you. 
and you thank the heavens that there’s a soundproof divider between the driver and the back of the van because that noise you make barely registers as human, tumbling from the back of your throat into his mouth. he grins against your lips. 
“should’ve done this sooner” he muses, pulling apart only to start another kiss. and then another. 
you smile, letting yourself be kissed and kissed and kissed. 
that article really has some merit, you think as sakusa manages to maneuver you out of your seat and into his lap. 
that, and maybe, just maybe, if it can keep his hoards of screaming fans from ever coming close to his lips, you just might be able to get into the whole facemask thing. 
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senorarelojes · 4 years
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Fic: Precious (4/?)
Title: Precious (4/?) Pairing: Dave/Alan Rating: NC-17 Additional Tags: Mpreg, ABO verse
Summary: "What's wrong with me? Am I sick?" Dave asked.
"No, Mr Gahan," the doctor replied. "You're pregnant."
Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here.
.
(It’s something I’m just writing for fun for @pinksyndication so please don’t take it too seriously and don’t click if male pregnancy isn’t your thing, sorry!)
. Alan was very quiet over the next few days as they left Japan, and Dave overheard Martin and Fletch gossiping that Al's pensive mood was most likely due to his explosive break-up with Jeri. Dave was happy to leave them in their mistaken assumption, because he wasn’t ready for anyone else to know the truth yet. Thankfully the Japanese dates were the last of their tour, and they were able to fly back home to the UK for the summer before continuing the second European leg in July.
Dave hadn’t wanted to go home to Basildon, so he let Jo have the flat in Bas while he searched for a new place in London. Alan had suggested that they look for a flat together since he was now technically homeless too, although Dave suspected it was because Alan wanted to be near him and the baby. Ever since he’d learned the news, Alan had been extra attentive to Dave, and he’d insisted on accompanying Dave to all his doctor’s appointments. They’d found an omega specialist on Liverpool Street, and she had the same kind, maternal air as Dr Watanabe, which comforted Dave greatly. She also didn’t seem to recognise either of them, which was a major bonus point.
They finally settled on a flat in Earl’s Court, which was quiet and peaceful, but near enough central London for Alan’s liking. It had two bedrooms, but from the first night onwards they automatically gravitated towards the same bed. Sometimes Dave would wake up in the middle of the night and find Alan watching him pensively, a hand sprawled protectively over Dave’s exposed belly. It then became second nature for both of them to sleep naked, skin to skin. Dave supposed it was one of the biological aspects of mating and bonding.
They still didn’t know whether Alan was an alpha or a beta, since they were preoccupied with the baby. When Dave had suggested that Alan go for a test, he’d simply shrugged before changing the topic to something else. It didn’t seem to be something he was too concerned about.
Over the next two weeks, Dave spent most of his mornings throwing up, then swearing at Alan for knocking him up. Alan took the abuse with good humour and spent his free time studying furniture catalogs so he could babyproof the flat. He brought Dave out to the movies and to eat at restaurants they both liked. “We should make full use of this time,” Alan said, tucking heartily into a plate of cacio e pepe. “Y’know, before you start showing.”
God, Dave didn’t even want to think about that. The pasta now tasted like paper in his mouth, but he kept eating quietly as Alan talked about a fancy new stroller he’d seen in Mothercare.
***
When Dave was eight weeks along, they agreed it was time to tell the others so they could cancel the second leg of their tour. They met with Fletch and Martin at the Mute office in Hammersmith, the four of them chatting in the reception while waiting for Dan to come in. Both Mart and Fletch seemed to assume the meeting was for the purposes of discussing logistics for the upcoming second leg of their European tour. Fletch talked about how he and Grainne were now scouting for flats in London, while Martin mused about possibly moving to Berlin. Alan was somehow able to act normally and participate in the conversation, while Dave just sat on the sofa and wished very desperately for a cigarette. 
Finally Dan arrived, juggling his mail and a takeaway cup of tea as he unlocked his office. “Sorry about that, lads. Come in.”
Dan’s office was an exercise in organised chaos. He had stacks and stacks of unheard demos waiting on his desk, along with letters, faxes and advanced album master copies waiting for him to sign off on them.  Dave took the chair next to Alan’s as Fletch made himself comfortable on the little sofa Dan kept in his office for naps, Martin perching on the arm beside him.
“So.” Dan cocked his head at Dave and Alan. “What’s the agenda for today, then?”
“Wait.” Fletch pointed at the two of them with a frown. “You lot called this meeting? I thought it was Dan.”
“No, it was Dave and I,” Alan said, looking straight at Dan. “We need to talk about cancelling the second leg of the tour.”
Fletch scoffed. “You’re bloody joking.”
“What’s going on?” Martin asked, brows knitted in concern.
“I’m pregnant,” Dave said softly, staring down at Dan’s table. Ironically, it was Vince’s face staring up at him from an Erasure press release.
Fletch and Martin immediately burst into laughter, both of them clutching onto each other in mirth. However, Dan was frowning deeply, his gaze ping-ponging between Alan and Dave. Maybe it was Alan’s grave expression that convinced him, because he was leaning forward, every muscle in his body seemingly taut with tension. “Is this true?” he asked Alan very seriously.
Alan nodded, reaching over to place a hand on Dave’s thigh. Dan looked down at Alan’s hand, then studied Dave again.
Both Fletch’s and Martin’s laughter was dying down. “Oh come on,” Fletch was saying, still smiling. “This is a prank, right?”
“No it’s not a prank,” Alan said. He nodded at Dave, who turned and reached into his bag to pull out the latest report and sonogram from their doctor. Dan took them all, putting on his glasses and studying the reports earnestly as though they were sales figures.
“Get out.” Fletch got to his feet, stomping over to hover over Dan’s shoulder so he could see them for himself. It was only a few moments before Fletch’s face turned paler and paler, his eyes wide and disbelieving. “No fucking way…”
“Wait, it’s real?” Martin jumped up, squeezing himself into the gap between Fletch and Dan so he could see it for himself. After a short while, Martin laughed nervously. “C’mon, this is a forgery, right? Good one, lads.”
Dave stood up in a cold fury. “You can all fuck off,” he snapped before storming out of Dan’s office, slipping on his shades so Suzie the receptionist wouldn’t see him crying. He found himself in the alley downstairs behind Mute’s office, desperately fumbling with a stray packet of cigarettes he’d found hidden in his jacket. He knew Alan would scold him for smoking, but right now he absolutely didn’t give a fuck.
Anyway, it didn’t matter because his hands were trembling too much to light a cigarette. He felt someone gently taking away the cig and his lighter. “Don’t do that.” At least Alan’s quiet voice helped to soothe his nerves.
Dave gave a violent sniffle, grateful that Alan pretended to look away so that Dave could wipe his eyes. “They still up there, thinking it’s a fuckin’ joke?” He was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Alan shrugged. “Dan’s talking to the two of them. At least Dan believes us, right? It’s honestly a better outcome than I expected.”
Dave eyed him. “What did you expect?”
“To be laughed out of the office,” Alan said simply. He stepped forward, folding his arms around Dave who gratefully accepted his hug.
It wasn’t long before they heard two sets of footsteps. Fletch still seemed to be getting over his shock, while Martin’s face was ridden with guilt. “All right?” Fletch said awkwardly, scuffing at his feet.
“You two came down to laugh at me some more?” Dave said, although there wasn’t much heat in it. Alan was still holding him, which felt really nice and took most of the anger out of him. Dave felt cold when Alan finally let him go.
Fletch’s jaw dropped, while Martin frowned at him and elbowed him meaningfully. “Er no, not at all.” Fletch rubbed the back of his head, the way he always did whenever he felt bad about something. “I mean, it is a lot to take in--”
“Andy,” Martin interjected, raising an eyebrow at Fletch.
“We shouldn’t have laughed,” Fletch admitted. “It was just a big shock, is all.”
“We didn’t know you were an omega,” Martin told Dave gently.
“Neither did I, mate,” Dave said with a sigh. “Only found out in Japan.”
Martin’s eyes widened. “You mean, when you had that food poisoning thing? That was--” Here, he gestured awkwardly at Dave’s belly. Alan nodded for the both of them.
“So what are we gonna do, lads?” Fletch, who always spoke with an air of strident confidence, sounded as lost as Dave felt.
“I don’t know,” Alan said, before rubbing Dave’s back. “But we’ll figure it out, yeah? You two on board with us?”
Martin nodded immediately. Fletch shot him an unsure glance before he gave them a single sharp nod.
It was definitely the best outcome Dave could have hoped for, at least.
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telmes · 4 years
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gusto kitang isayaw ng mabagal
summary: nathalie and gabriel and emilie dance. notes: the title is in tagalog because the song is in tagalog. it means ‘i want to dance with you slowly’ or, the better sounding sentence would be ‘i want to slow dance with you’. anyway!! words: 1227
Something pleasant hums between the spaces of Nathalie’s ribs, snaking its way around terse edges to settle across the expanse of her chest. The hole she calls her heart is beating in tune to the music playing on the too-expensive speakers, a rumble beneath her feet.
Her eyes catch movement along her peripheral; of blonde hair tossed carelessly; of two bodies gliding across the dance floor; of too-shy-in-the-face-of-their-wife-fashion-moguls having a hard time letting go of his tense shoulders to be able to enjoy an evening in the company of the only woman who could coax him out of his office.
Nathalie enjoys the view. Her satisfaction over the fact that Emilie has pulled Gabriel from his work, to dance the night away, is palpable over the sounds of the slow jazz number ringing in their ears. She is sat, alone, allowing herself a moment of peace from the papers and the calls, the meetings and the people, the throbbing of her miraculous beneath the lapel of her blazer and the innocuous laughter that both Gabriel and Emilie share when one or the other play supervillain.
If her boss and his wife can let the night pass without incident, so can she.
When the music shifts to something a little more upbeat, Nathalie leaves for the balcony. She spares a lingering glance at the two Agrestes to confirm that they’re still having the time of their lives; or, at least, Emilie is. Gabriel’s tense shoulders are obvious even from where Nathalie stood.
Despite his noticeable discomfort, she can see the subtlest of smiles flitting across his lips as Emilie pulls him close. Nathalie has always been privy to his expressions, however minute they are; and currently, despite the fact that he will deny it come morning, he knows that during the night before that he has let himself go.
&&
Somewhere in the building, above their heads, she knows Duusu and Nooroo are enjoying a night off, deserving of it after everything they've been going through.
In her thoughts, Nathalie wonders if either her or Gabriel and Emile deserve a night off everything too.
&&
“I want to slow dance with you,” Gabriel says when she returns, embarrassment coloring his cheeks an obvious red.
Maybe that’s just the exhaustion from trying to keep up with Emilie.
Nathalie looks at him anyway, awed and decidedly enamored by the flush of cheeks. She coughs in order to cover up her surprise, yet failing in that regard. Emilie wants to laugh at the awkward request-slash-order from her husband and the subsequent reaction from his assistant, nudging Gabriel as his oxfords tap insistently on the floor, making an insistent clacking sound.
Oh.
He only does that when he’s nervous.
Gabriel looks the part of a teenager asking his prom date for a dance, Nathalie notes, remembering the film Adrien made her watch months ago. When she doesn’t answer quick enough, Emilie slides beside her, bumping her shoulder.  
“Oh come on Nath. It’s only for one night,” Emilie croons, shifting in her seat. A perfectly manicured nail pokes at Nathalie’s side, causing the woman to let out a soft yelp.
“Wouldn’t they talk?” Nathalie’s hand rubs her side. That does nothing to stop Emilie from doing it again.
Emilie shrugs. She stands to plant a kiss on Nathalie’s cheek, to the woman’s growing horror. The sticky sensation on her skin prevents her from rubbing her cheek. She doesn’t want to smear the mark Emilie left.
Considering the color of Emilie’s lips, it probably matches her turtleneck.
“The staff know to stay quiet.” Emilie punctuates her words with a giggle.  
Gabriel clears his throat to let them know that he’s still there, standing expectantly, waiting for an answer. Emilie laughs as Nathalie takes his offered hand, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.
It feels like shrapnel digging against her chest when the speakers echo the voice singing about love found and love lost. Gabriel’s hands are on her waist while hers wrap around his neck. It is intimate enough that she wishes Emilie were here instead of her.
At the same time, she’s glad for the moment.
“I’m glad this song played instead. I don’t think I could’ve handled another fast one after all the spinning Emilie made me do,” Gabriel says as he leans to rest his forehead on her own.
“I apologize for missing it,” she replies, closing her eyes. “I’ll have to review the security footage later. I’d love to see the great Gabriel Agreste at the mercy of his wife.”
He huffs petulantly. “You make it sound as though you aren’t under her thumb most of the time.”
She cracks open one eye to see him pouting. It makes her flash a rare smile at him.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
His breath on her face is a warmth that only serves to send shivers down her spine. He smells like cinnamon and spices; a Gabriel-exclusive. He knows how attached she is to the scent of cinnamon.
“I’m appalled that you get a kiss while I was dragged around like a ragdoll.” Gabriel hums, lifting his head to turn towards his wife, letting out a surprised noise.
Nathalie searches for Emilie only to see her head resting on their table, blonde hair splayed over her like a blanket. She stifles a laugh as Gabriel steps away from her, and both start their short trek towards the now sleeping woman.
“It looks like all that spinning took a toll on her,” Nathalie muses.
“That it did.”
“Will you retire for the evening? I’ll get the staff to clean everything up for tomorrow.”
“I think that would be for the best,” Gabriel answers. He squares his shoulders before taking Emilie into his arms, lifting her up bridal style. Her head flops unceremoniously on Gabriel’s chest.
He sighs. Yet he doesn’t mind it, from the smile he has, directed at his sleeping wife.
The faint snores that escape her lips bring both Nathalie and Gabriel endless amounts of mirth; it is only through sheer willpower that Nathalie doesn’t take out her phone to record Emilie at that moment.
Instead, Nathalie tucks Emilie’s hanging arm on top of her chest. There is a softness present in the woman’s face that never ceases to amaze her. Nathalie leaves a chaste kiss on Emilie’s cheek after, on the same side where she’d been kissed earlier.
“Goodnight Emilie,” she whispers, watching the slow rise and fall of Emilie’s chest. Affection flutters throughout her body, and when she glances at Gabriel, she sees that affection mirrored in his blue eyes.
She reaches up to him (not a difficult endeavor, considering she is almost his height) and gives him a kiss on his lips. It is short and it ends far faster than he would normally hope, but she doesn’t want him to drop Emilie if she prolongs it.
“There. I hope you aren’t disappointed that it won’t leave a mark.”
“It’s not as though I would actually drop her,” he grumbles.
Nathalie laughs. Not loud enough to stir the sleeping woman in his arms but enough to make Gabriel level a glare in her direction. It lacks the intimidating presence he tends to have, but that was only because of the woman in his arms.
Nathalie steps aside, allowing him to pass her. “Goodnight Gabriel.”
“Goodnight Nathalie.”
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hamethyst · 4 years
Text
Fool Dreamers
Summary:  Before she was a hero, she had been a warrior. A hunter. A sister. A girl, dreaming simply of a better world. 
Of all the people who could have understood that, she didn’t expect the foremost to be a prince. Friendship, introspection, backstory, and Buduga Boys. <12,000 words (yeah, it’s long lol).
&&&
She should have seen this coming. Could have, if she had heeded Leveva’s advice and continued practicing her astromancy in the midst of her conjury. Then again, perhaps the other woman had seen that she wouldn’t, and only spoken so she could, however subtly, rub it in her face upon her next visit to Ishgard. It sounded like something she would do.
Either way, she felt the regret of her oversight keenly now, the gaps between her fingers itching for the knife-edges of her cards as she held her opponents in her sights, missing the weight of an astrometer against her back.
She came out here, a half malm away from Mol Iloh, seeking time away from the boisterous celebrations happening in the village. It had been all just a touch too much, after so many years away. The Scions could be lively, but they could not compare to the Xaela clans at the dawning of Spring. And at the time, near a quarter of them were packed within the boundaries of the Mol’s small encampment, still basking in the highs of a hard-won victory.
So, Odzaya left, avoiding the light of the bonfires, the dance floor, the sounds of merrymaking emerging from every yurt. Only one saw her before she vanished: Organa, who shooed her on with a knowing smile and a finger to the lips that she playfully returned. She found a shallow plateau, one that reminded her of the larger one over Reunion’s proper, and settled with the tastes of buuz and warm tea still on her tongue, the stars above already in her sights. A bell passed, mayhap two, as she sought to refamiliarize herself with constellations that for the last eight years she had only seen from the perspective of one from Eorzea. Then she was duly interrupted.
“And what, pray tell, is the great khagun doing out here by her lonesome?” she heard from behind her, and looked over her shoulder to see, unexpectedly, the familiar dark forest green of the Buduga. Lower-ranking members, the three of them, by the way they stood, obviously too big for their britches, and Daidukul nowhere in sight. She felt a familiar simmer of annoyance start low in the pot of her belly at the sight.
“Seeking a small reprieve from the festivities,” she answered coolly, twisting in their direction with a casual air. “And you all?”
One of them, rosy-skinned with flames for hair, smirked condescendingly. “Looking for you, of course, dear daughter of the Dawn and Dusk.” She sniffed. Was that her new title, then?
“We have a small favor.” Another, skin bluer in tint, a sleek mane of pale bark-brown tumbling down his neck, took a lanky step forward. Instinctively, Odzaya’s hands tingled, aether building and spreading to her extremities in an instant.
“To ask?” she calmly guessed.
“To fulfill.” The third, his skin violet-brown, short blue hair in a coif that accentuated his chiseled features. “Eldest Daidukul could not be here himself, due to the injuries he sustained in the Naadam.” His eyes, pale silver and ringed in cobalt, narrowed. “Injuries you suffered him.”
She shrugged, unbothered by the hint of hostility in his tone and face. “Such are the stakes when one chances for the Throne. Surely you as warriors know this.”
“Nevertheless, we have come in his stead, to fulfill that which we know he would desire.”
They come without his knowledge, then, she thought, catching the way of their wording. They act on their own. “And that would be…?” she prompted, her brow lifting in time with the recesses of her magic.
“Poor warriors are we who failed to protect our eldest from harm, especially from that of someone clearly lesser.” The inflamed one spit out the last word as one would a bloody, too-loosened tooth. “‘Tis a failing for which we plan to atone.”
She sighed to herself. Why are we always so dramatic a people? “Look, men,” she began, and struggled not to apply too much sarcastic emphasis on a word, herself. “If you wish to contest my claiming of the ovoo and the subsequent privilege of being named khagun, then feel free. But it should be done at a proper time of day, among proper witnesses, yes?” She used an upturned hand to indicate the plains around them, empty but for wildlife, the wind, and the stones of which she mentally noted the positions. “However much the land comes alive during this time of year, I do not believe it counts as one.”
“There need not be proper procedures taken for an improper khagun,” the sleek-haired one sneered. “You are false, Odzaya Malaguld, as false as you were the first time you claimed blessings from the Sun, and we will prove it by besting you here and now.” He grinned. “There will be witnesses enough to see when we present your head to our khan at the Da– ah!”
A small stone, no larger than her thumb, pelted the center of his forehead, stunning him silent. “Thank the Mother,” she muttered, rising to her feet and brushing stray grass from her rear, her stave simultaneously manifesting in her unoccupied hand. “You’ve all spent far too much time amongst the Oronir,” she said, louder. “Bloody orators, the whole lot of you. The Buduga I knew were at least aware enough to know when they were being ignored.”
“The woman uses her magicks!” the inflamed one hissed to his brothers. “Be on your guard!”
“Probably for the best,” she agreed, grabbing their attention. “The only parts of you covered are your arms, legs, and private parts.” Another stone, slightly larger than the last, she sent at one’s bare stomach, just to prove her point. At least that has stayed the same in the last eight years, she joked to herself.Still, Odzaya kept her stance open, her shoulders loosened, her legs relaxed. Her stave she planted into the ground, presenting it more as a walking cane than a weapon. “Are you sure about this?” she asked them, clucking her tongue in skepticism. “Methinks you might be a touch out of your depth.”
“White-scaled witch! Worry not for the warriors who will soon drink of your blood!” The blue-haired one drew his spear and rushed her, only to be taken off course as a blast of wind knocked him back. He grunted as the skin of his left side, catching the brunt of the air’s force, opened in a scattering of paper-thin cuts.
“Must have gotten that one from Daidukul,” she chuckled, referring to his epithet. “It was always a favorite of his.”
“Do not speak the eldest’s name!” The sleek-haired one, wiping the dirt from his forehead, drew daggers from his belt and charged. He missed the rise of the sizable stone at his back until it hit him there, sending him sprawling to the grass with a skid.
They were younger than she thought; young, or exceptionally unskilled. No strategy, no eye for their surroundings. They were little better than a trio of rampaging dzo, so uncoordinated were their efforts. She remembered seeing them during the Naadam; they had remained at the rear, offering support to their clan’s more seasoned members. Now she knew why. Warriors, they mayhap were, but infantile ones, untested outside of Bardam’s ancient trials. Excessively passionate and daringly dim. She smiled to herself. Little worse than me, all those years ago. “How old are you all?” she asked, suddenly curious, leaning lightly on her staff, her tail wrapping lightly around it, the weight of her locs shifting as her head tilted, her earring tinkling with the movement. She tucked one vine-like strand of pink hair behind a fanned ivory horn.
“Old enough to know well your crimes, False Sun,” the inflamed one (what were their names, anyhow?) snarled. He made another attempt to enter her orbit, only for the wind to send him spiraling back to his comrades. His grimace deepened.
“My knocking your eldest brother flat is not a crime,” she corrected. “Be thankful that was all he suffered.” Gods know she had stayed her hand with no small effort as her stave had connected like a pole-arm to his neck, the sharpened adornments cutting deep into his shoulder.
“Thankful?!” He scoffed. “Thankful for some arrogant imposter of a Xaela pretending to be one of us, only to eschew our ways and steal the Throne from those to which it rightfully belongs? A woman who brought foreigners into our sacred rites, making a mockery of centuries of tradition?” The sneer returned to his face, uglier than before. “You are a usurper, Malaguld, a conniving succubus who slithered her way into Illustrious Brother Magnai’s bed, then left him shamed as you crossed the seas, only to return and rob us of our home.” Odzaya felt her eyes widen when he stepped forward, spine straight as an arrow, his branch-thin chest puffed as a pissed halgai. “That day you fell from the Dawn Throne, the land should have drank of your life as well as your blood. As what should have occurred today.”
“No doubt it was her foul magicks that saved her,” the blue-haired one drawled, drawing off of his companion’s confidence. Beside him, their sleek-haired brother joined them.
“No matter,” he declared. “She will not escape her fate this time.”
Odzaya eyed them each in turn, absorbing their accusations with pursed lips. Her stave remained at rest in the grass, supporting her weight, tuned to the aether swirling deeper in the earth, connecting her to a small vestige of its presence, warm and thick. She closed her eyes, breathing in, and felt it in the air, frissons that bypassed clothing and skin and settled in her bones.
She laughed. Great, resounding bursts that left her throat and made her small body fold unto itself with the force. She snorted, probably; hiccuped, definitely, the natural abrasion of her voice growing in time with her mirth. When she went to cover her mouth – because by the Sun the looks on their faces could have melted the ground at her feet – it somehow only made it worse.
“You laugh?!” The inflamed one looked so livid she swore his hair began moving, licking locks seeming to flit about his head like the fires they resembled. The others, predictably, were calmer, but their faces were no less stormy.
“Apologies, warriors,” she wheezed. “I am merely surprised.” Another hitch found its out of her mouth, and she finally sought to calm herself enough to remember how to breathe and speak. “I am sorry,” she said again, and that time it was comprehensible. She continued, straightening, her staff still held tight in her grip. “You just caught me unawares. No idea had I that such a tale had been woven in my absence.” And what a tale it was, she thought, containing small smatterings of truth cushioned by enough fluff and drama to impress even Ishgard’s High Houses. To think I am that dastardly, she thought, giggling once more to herself. ‘Tis almost impressive.
“A ‘tale’ that tells the history of your arrogance and treachery, Raen witch!” the sleek-haired one yelled. “A history that failed to put you in your proper place when it should have. We will not allow it to happen a second time!” At his cue, he and his brothers retook their stances, weapon edges a gleaming threat under the moonlight.
She snorted again. “I don’t suppose you will allow me to tell my side?”
“So you can fill our heads with lies and empty slander?” the blue-coiffed one rumbled. “We think not.” Lowering his body into a crouch, lance pointed at the ready, she saw the winding of the coils in his legs, preparing to launch him forward...
“A shame. I, for one, was looking well forward to hearing more.”
...before he stumbled to a stop just as he began to lift off, shocked as they all were to hear a voice not among their own speak. The mystery did not last as Odzaya turned in the direction of a movement out of the corner of her eye, only to see a bristling tail of ebon hair appear over the edge of her small plateau, soon followed by the now-familiar visage of one smiling Doman prince.
“Hien?” she murmured, at the same time the Buduga trio exclaimed, “Fire Walker!”
“Fellow warriors,” the Hyuran man greeted them. With obvious ease, his arms pulled him up over the lip of the plateau, where he rose and genially approached them, his fur-trimmed yellow dogi bright against the deepening blue of the night. To the trio he lifted a friendly hand; to her, she noted, surprise making her eyes widen slightly, he gave a shallow but notably respectful bow. “Lady Khagun,” he addressed her, and after hearing the title spoken with such insulting abandon over the past several instances, hearing it in such a distinctly reverent tone threw her, enough that she failed to react in any kind of appropriately timed manner. Hien, thankfully, moved on before it could be made obvious, though not before she thought she caught an amused quirk in his grin. “Quite the interesting gathering we have here tonight,” he said, the words and his expression clearly implying curiosity. He made a point of eyeing the boys’ unsheathed weapons. “And lively.”
To Odzaya’s continued surprise, the boys froze, then scrambled to compose themselves, their bloodlust disappearing as quickly as their weapons lowered in the next heartbeat. “We were, ah, having a discussion with the khagun, Brother Hien,” the inflamed one fumbled a reply. Hien nodded.
“I heard this discussion.” The trio blanched, their colorings seeming to reduce to near-stark white. Hien maintained his grin, as well as his approach. “Or part of it, at least. ‘Twas a truly fantastic tale you had to tell of our khagun.” One thick, scarred eyebrow lifted to his bangs. “A pity that you refused us to hear her version.”
“We wished not to hear her lies, Fire Walker,” the sleek-haired one boldly asserted. “You know not her reputation, the damage she has wrought!” He glared at her. “Comrades we know you are, but she is not to be trusted.”
“I see.” Hien crossed his arms, his expression contemplative. “Forgive my ignorance, gentlemen, but these are rather serious accusations, are they not? And not made lightly, nor in mere idle gossip, as you three took the initiative to seek out Odzaya Khagun with them in hand, yes?”
It was still very odd to hear someone say her full name and new title; she blinked when she heard it leave his lips, altered slightly by his Doman dialect, and caught the corner of his gaze once more when she looked at him. That time, the quirk of amusement at the edge of his mouth was obvious to her sight, and she wondered what it meant.
“Correct, Brother Hien.” The inflamed one nodded vigorously. “Eldest brothers Magnai and Daidukul could not be here, due to prior responsibilities. No doubt they would have, otherwise.”
“Aye, perhaps,” Hien spoke, nodding in seeming agreement. He lifted his gaze to them. “And do you all think that, given the severity of these matters, they would have handled them thus?”
“Ye-” The inflamed one’s mouth shut before his reply could be completed, his gaze suddenly unsure. The other two, as well, finally seemed to take stock of the situation as it stood. The three of them, members of a losing clan, weapons drawn with obvious intent, and her, the new khagun, alone and a malm away from the nearest settlement.
The laws of the Steppe could be and were often few and far between. The laws that existed, however, were understood to be absolute. And one such law forbade the forceful removal of a khagun without due process.
Even a trio of rampaging dzo could see where they had faltered. Odzaya let loose a small smile.
“I am afraid you have landed yourselves in quite the cavernous pit, gentlemen,” Hien continued, leveling them with a calm but assertive look. “Not only have you taken it upon yourselves to act in the name of your khans without their express permission, you have used this false authority to attempt what I am afraid can only be called assassination. Not only of the rightful representative of the Xaela, but of a member of the clan to which I am so honorably bound. Not only a leader or comrade, but a friend.” Abruptly, the prince’s stance changed, hardened almost imperceptibly, and Odzaya, for the first time, noted his positioning: directly between herself and her offenders. When next he spoke, his tone, too, was different, a note of depth and intensity that had been utterly absent before. “Foreigner I may be, but I cannot, in good faith, take such brazen moves lightly.” A distinctive click sounded in the windswept quiet, and she noted the katana looped through his obi, the fingers he had wrapped around the hilt, and the thumb that had partially, near-imperceptibly loosed the blade from its sheath, revealing just a hint of glimmering steel. “What say you, warriors?” he asked, deceptively nonchalant.
If the young men before her had blanched previously, they fair bleached now, their gazes locked on that blade. Odzaya looked at Hien herself, no small measure of surprised and impressed.
And then he met her gaze, for just a moment, just out of the corner of his eye, and winked, his mouth turning upward.
Ah. She schooled her own reflexive smile before it could become visible, and tailored her expression into that which she only used when dealing with those with particularly hard skulls. Stepping forward, she made a show of laying her hand over the hilt of Hien’s katana, covering his bare, calloused fingers with her own. She eyed the three young men, exuding a diplomatic calm. “Mayhap you’d be willing to consider my previous suggestion now?” They startled at her voice, eyes still wide as their gazes shifted from the prince to her. Still shell-shocked enough to momentarily forget the hate they were meant to be spewing. She took advantage. “You obviously feel strongly about the new status quo that has been established on the Steppe. You deserve to air those grievances. Agreed?”
They looked at one another, then at her. Nearly revived their tirade, she thought, before their gazes fell once more to the barely-visible shine of Hien’s blade. “Aye,” one finally answered gruffly.
“Then approach your khan,” Hien declared, stepping forward ‘til he was at her shoulder. “Make your case. And if supported, proper motions can be made before her, as witnessed by the appropriate parties.” He looked down to regard her briefly. “Something Odzaya Khagun suggested ere your conflict began, if I recall.”
Then he’d been present for longer than they realized, Odzaya thought, lifting an eyebrow, before focusing on the trio. There was more reluctant agreement on their side, in the form of shuffling sandaled feet, and weapons that were finally put away. Hien seemed to take it as a signal; as quickly as his intensity appeared, it vanished, and the young lord regained his genial smile as his blade disappeared back into its sheath so quickly one wondered if they had even seen its initial flash of light.
“We will do this,” the blue-haired one declared. To his credit, he looked at least partly chastised, as did his brothers as they took a definitive step back. “Thank you for your council, Fire Walker.” He hesitated a moment, then, and with even more reluctance than before, met her gaze. “And yours, khagun,” he added, low enough that they only heard it because it carried on the breeze she still controlled.
“Eldest Brother Daidukul still wants you with us, samurai,” the inflamed one declared. “Our loss in the Naadam does not change this.”
Hien simply nodded. “A matter for another time, perhaps.”
“A time that will come soon,” the sleek-haired one vowed, to the prince’s easy amusement. Then, in sync with his brothers, he stiffly bowed; his gaze found hers as they rose. “‘Til next time.” Only the slightest hint of that now-familiar sneer, no doubt reduced to avoid another glimpse of Hien’s blade, as well as any more stones to the face or wind shears to the extremities. Odzaya smiled.
“Tell Daidukul and Magnai I liked the story. T’was nice to hear a gist of all that has been said of me these summers past.”
A grunt was his reply, and her smile widened. Then she and Hien watched as the Buduga warriors began their trek back across the plains, carefully bypassing Mol Iloh. When it became clear there would be no sudden backtrack, Odzaya sighed and allowed her stave to dissipate. “Well…” When she looked up, Hien was watching her, the amused grin she caught on his lips now out for the world to see. She matched it. “That was fun.”
“Certainly eventful.” Unexpectedly, he pointed upward. “Will that still be necessary, do you think?”
She followed his finger. “Ah.” She sent a small wave of her aether to the sky; mere moments later, the ground shook as a boulder – wide enough for Gosetsu to comfortably seat his rump on – hit the ground several fulms away, mere ilms from where the Buduga trio had previously stood. “I suppose not,” she said, smiling at the black brows that rose near to Hien’s hairline. “Thankfully, I did not need it.”
“Full glad am I that you did not!” he chuckled. “Though I suspect it may have offered more effective support than myself or my measly blade.”
“Tis the thought that counts, my lord,” she replied, her smirk teasing. “Besides, rocks cannot spout ancient Auri law. It was impressive to hear.”
“The praise should go to Cirina. I must thank her once more for those weeks she stayed by my sickbed, entertaining what certainly must have seemed an endless spiel of questions.” Hien looked, smiling absently, in the direction the Buduga trio departed. “My idea to petition the Xaela clans to aid in Doma’s liberation came shortly after I awoke on the Steppe; it did not take long, after all, for me to see the strength of your people. I knew from the first, however, that I would stand little chance of convincing anyone without proper knowledge – and respect – for Xaelic history and customs. So, once my injuries allowed me to remain conscious for longer than a bell, I plead with the Mol to educate me; and Cirina, being the khatun’s granddaughter, as well as having essentially taken on the role of my caretaker, became my primary teacher.”
Odzaya lifted a dark pink brow. “And here I thought you spent all that recovery time stuffing yourself with boortsog.” Hien laughed.
“The Mol made idleness more tempting than I care to admit. Cirina, however, turned out to be quite the pedagogue. Once I was well enough to move, she declared I would only continue to learn if I began reconditioning my body in conjunction. Fortunately, I did not need to be convinced.”
Odzaya fairly beamed with pride. “I always knew she had a knack for instruction. She always said she was too soft-hearted.”
“She said she learned her oh-so-effective ways from another. Her older sister, I believe.”
Her grin froze, for just a moment. Then softened. “Did she?”
“Aye.” Hien eyed her, his smile like her own. “When I asked who she was, she insisted it mattered not, that the young woman in question had left the Steppe long ago.” He watched her, his gaze turning gently scrutinizing.
Odzaya let out a breath. “So she had,” she replied, shrugging. “Probably for the best.” Hien chuckled.
“Oh? And why is that?” Odzaya snorted at him.
“Rather sure you heard, eavesdropper.” She went over the Buduga trio’s seemingly endless list of scathing epithets. “She was a troublemaker. An impostor. A would-be usurper.”
“A witch?” Hien arched an eyebrow. “A succubus?”
“At least the last two show some creativity,” she muttered, smirking to herself.
“‘Tis certainly an interesting interpretation of one woman’s character.” Hien crossed his arms, his expression pondering, his head at a tilt. “Quite different from the impression I received from Cirina, if they indeed speak of the same person.”
“And how did she describe her?” she asked, admittedly curious.
Hien grinned. “In a word? As a hero.”
A memory at her subconscious, of Mol Iloh in a different place and time. Of her soaring over those familiar red-draped white-clothed roofs on yol-back, only to land and be immediately pounced upon by a half-dozen tiny bodies. One always hung back, equal parts patient and shy, until she approached herself with outstretched arms. Only then would little Rina run up to and into them, pale, black-scaled hands gripping her shoulders, her laughter a soft, high-pitched chirp, like a bird, as she spun them around.
Odzaya smiled. “Cirina always had an active imagination. She also used to swear I looked like a flower.”
“I can see that,” Hien said, to which she shot him a tolerant look. “Is her interpretation of you so far-fetched?” he asked, sounding skeptical.
“I was young, no older than twenty summers, and thought I could change the world.” She chuckled, looking out over grassy plains. “My world, at least. I wasn’t heroic, just arrogant and naive.” She tossed her head in the direction of the Dawn Throne, where three soaring figures, dull white against the ink-blue sky, could be seen. “Like them.”
“They were certainly passionate about their views. And more than a little belligerent.” Hien looked at her, curiosity stamped openly across his wide brow. “Were you the same at their age?”
“Belligerent? No.” She smirked. “Could I pick a fight every now and again, sometimes against senior clansmen? Sometimes.”
“So, an occasional troublemaker you were, then? Making their tale at least partly true?”
Odzaya tipped her head, considering, before meeting Hien’s expectant gaze with a half-sheepish shrug. The young lord immediately laughed, and she could not help the small giggle that she released alongside him.
“My interest in this tale continues to grow!” he exclaimed. “I daresay I will end this day unsatisfied for not having heard it in its entirety.”
Odzaya jerked a thumb in the general direction of the palace. “The boys haven’t gotten too far. Even if you miss them along the way, you can always take a friendly night flight to the Dawn Throne yourself and ask the skilled orators to recite it for you.” She allowed a hint of sarcasm to enter her tone. “The ‘Fire Walker’, I am sure, would at least be welcome.”
“Hmm.” Hien made a show of stroking his bearded chin. “A tempting offer. The view from the Dawn Throne is quite spectacular.”
“Beats mine, I’d bet.” Odzaya stretched her arms overhead, sighing with relief as her spine cracked; little surprise, it always seemed to stiffen when she spoke of the past. Then, with a small burst of wind-aspected aether, she leapt up, lightly planting and plopping herself down atop her new boulder, swinging her legs and tail and tossing her locs over her shoulder. She looked down at Hien, who grinned up at her amusedly.
“Is this a sign that my presence is no longer welcome?”
“More a signal that your duty is complete.” She smiled at him. “I thank you kindly for your assistance, Hien. I have a feeling that encounter would not have gone as peacefully as it did without your intervention.”
Hien stepped forward, his hand finding the boulder’s surface as he examined it. “Were you truly going to drop this on them if they had not kept their distance?”
“No,” she answered honestly. She paused. “Perhaps. But not to smash them.” As he chuckled, she shrugged. “A hindrance, it served as, little more. Though I am a bit disappointed they never noticed it.” Their faces would have been priceless.
“You and me, both,” Hien replied, no doubt imagining something similar as his smile turned toothy. He removed his hand from the boulder and took a step back. “Full glad am I that I could be of help, khagun, however far you were from having need of it.” He gave her a princely bow, obviously done in jest but somehow still seeming sincere in its execution. As he rose, his gaze matched. “One can only hope there will not be a reoccurrence.”
“I can always find more wind and rocks,” she joked. “And more boulders. Though it may prove difficult to find any more foreign princes with a penchant for knightliness and ancient Auri law.”
Hien shook his head, looking profoundly disappointed. “And here I was led to believe that this land provided all one could ever need.” Odzaya giggled.
“Will you be attending to the Dawn Throne, then? Something tells me they might be lacking for one, as well.”
“That depends,” said prince replied, one expressive eyebrow rising. “Would one still be appreciated here?”
Odzaya briefly contemplated, then answered by scooting her bottom to the right of her boulder and patting the empty space that emerged. “If he does not mind a not-quite-so-spectacular view.” For some reason, she wasn’t quite ready to return to her lonesome just yet. Hien grinned up at her so widely his eyes crinkled.
“From where I am standing, I do believe that may be arguable.” And before she could properly reply, or even parse his meaning, he took her invitation. Odzaya felt the boulder shift slightly as Hien walked around, climbed aboard, and settled himself beside her, legs crossed, the warmth of the bare skin of his arm minutely felt through the sheep’s wool of her coat. “Surprisingly comfortable,” he said admirably. “You found quite the quality stone, my friend.”
“Only the best for those I threaten to squish,” she japed.
“Such care taken, even for her enemies,” Hien chuckled. “Perhaps this dreaded succubus is not so horrid a figure, after all.”
Odzaya huffed in amusement, still finding herself tickled by the Buduga trio’s tale. “Or perhaps she is just seducing you into believing such. I have a history of that, apparently.”
“Far worse fates I can imagine, if so,” he replied, and his smile turned slightly cheeky again. “I should think Illustrious Brother Magnai felt a similar way.”
Odzaya snorted so hard, her nose burned. “Magnai never feels anything, except pride and perhaps constipation due to the stick up his arse. Even if he did, it’s not as if we were ever truly together. Merely…” She stopped herself abruptly, realizing what she was revealing. She glanced at Hien only to find him watching her, his eyebrows arched, his mien open and unobtrusive. And dreadfully curious. Odzaya shifted her sights to the stars overhead, wondering, briefly, if her astromancy would allow her to turn back time just enough to retake her words. No such luck most like (another point in Leveva’s favor), and feeling the proverbial maw open at her feet, ironically about the size of the boulder she excavated, she released a surrendering sigh. “Merely betrothed,” she finished, lamely.
“Ah,” Hien said simply, nodding. The utter neutrality of his tone only served to make the unspoken question of “and the difference is...?” all the more obvious.
“Our union was never consummated,” she explained, before he could find a polite way to ask or awkwardly tread around it. “I left before it could be. A mutual decision.”
“I see. Interesting; by the Buduga’s reckoning, the decision was yours and yours alone, with Magnai little more than a jilted lover left to salvage the remains of said pride in your absence.”
“Magnai was fine,” she said immediately, attempting to picture the Oronir brokenhearted. It failed to come together in her mind’s eye. “It would have been a simple matter of him picking someone else to replace me.”
Hien lifted his brow once more. “Someone else?”
“Do you remember Dorbei very loudly lamenting during our journey back to the village after the Naadam? Something about my ‘having my pick of the Steppe’?” At the prince’s nod, she shrugged. “He wasn’t entirely joking. A particular perk of being khagun is the privilege of choosing romantic partners.”
Hien made an expression of recognition, then grinned. “Quite the perquisite, that is.”
“So long they are not previously, exclusively bound to another, anyone can be chosen. And one’s fortune is considered great if they are.” Odzaya set her eye on the Dawn Throne, her brow furrowing in remembrance. “That year, my twentieth summer, Magnai won the Naadam for the Oronir. And chose me.”
Mol Iloh, those same comforting red-draped roofs, even if she no longer had the means to see them from above. She saw Cirina, no longer so small a bird, no longer able to fit in her arms quite so easily, but still running up to her like she always had, only more carefully, as if her big sister would break if startled or handled too roughly. Still smiling, but there was something different behind it, urgent in her grass-green eyes. Odzaya knew not what it was until another figure had made itself known behind her, tall and imposing, clad in dark leather and darker fur, the blonde tips of his hair and the gold of his gaze catching and binding the sunlight that beat down on them from a too-blue sky. And as she had risen, cautiously, to face him, hands speckled with dirt, still clutching the herbs she had plucked from the earth, that gaze had been strangely gentle.
“I rejected him, the first time,” Odzaya said, smirking. The moon, large and round and flooding the land with silver, reminded her of the sun that day, how it had coated her back with warmth and heated the dirt under her hands and turned the backs of her eyelids yellow, until Magnai’s shadow had blocked it all out. “I thought it was a joke, or a trap. But then he came back, insistent that he was serious.”
“What manner of trap might it have been?” Hien asked.
“In the aftermath of the Naadam, victorious clans have been known to target those who previously opposed them on the battlefield. Sometimes, it is a simple matter of establishing dominance, ridding them of whatever compulsion they may have to object to the land’s decision. Other times, those opposing clans are near-decimated, people and all, as a means of eliminating future competition.”
“An effective if not ruthless tactic,” Hien commented. Odzaya nodded in agreement.
“T’was not a very common practice until recently. Some of the abandoned villages you see scattered across the land are the last vestiges of raids that occurred over the last two epochs.” Tilting toward Hien, she indicated one such set of remains, far off in the distance, only noticeable by the skeleton of a watchtower. Hien momentarily leaned close to see it, his eyes squinting.
“They remind me of the ruins I could see from the palace as a boy, when I scaled the outer walls to survey the lands beyond,” he remarked. “Hollowed out buildings, the pillaged ruins of small towns and caravans.” He sighed and leaned back. “I am almost loathe to say it, but the tactics are similar to those the Empire employs. Seeing such disaster, with no certain way of knowing if the people themselves survived; it certainly does well to lower morale.”
“So it does.” She pointed to another landmark, this one far easier to see due to the lantern’s light that separated it from the night. “‘Tis not all bad, though. The beacons one finds all over? Those were remains, as well. A number of clans, most notably the Qestir, repurposed them over the years, that they might serve travelers seeking sanctuary and safety from the wildlife. Or opportunistic clansmen.”
“Do they not all eventually lead to Reunion?” At her nod, Hien smiled. “The one place on the Steppe where violence is prohibited. Not a coincidence, I’m sure.”
“Correct.” Odzaya smiled, as well, pleased by his deduction. The origin of the lanterns had ever been one of her favorite stories. Lights in the dark, and all that.
“Ingenious in its practicality,” the prince said. “And beautiful in its symbolism.” His smile sobered and softened in equal measure, his gaze turning inward. “I wonder if perhaps…” He trailed off.
“Perhaps…?” Odzaya repeated. Hien came back to himself, then shook his head. To her surprise, he looked a touch sheepish.
“Bah, nothing. Just getting ahead of myself, as I am sometimes wont to do. One step at a time, after all.” He looked at her. “Tis truly a wonderful way to honor the past while accounting for the future. I imagine, however, that you wished not for your own clan to share such a fate, thus your caution when Magnai approached you.”
“Mm,” she confirmed with a hum. “That year, I entered the Naadam as the only representative of the Malaguld; the first, apparently, in decades. As you can probably guess, we are of the more peaceful clans, wholly uninterested in the goings-on of constant warfare. We are also one of the few clans that accept Raen members, and most of ours are refugees, former citizens across Yanxia and Hingashi displaced from their homes in the wake of the Garlean invasion.” Suddenly recalling, Odzaya turned to him, her expression eager. “Some of them are Doman; they’ve wished to speak with you.”
“Aye, they approached me during the celebration. We spoke for some time; a number of them wish to accompany us to join the Liberation Front.” Hien’s eyes were bright with the prospect. “I will have to thank your khatun for granting them sanctuary all these years. It means more than words can say to know they found the safety of another home, and even more that they have not lost hope for their former.” His expression then turned curious. “Tell me: are the origins of the Raen in your clan, then, a representation of your own?”
More roofs, tho ugh these were not draped with red . Rather, they were looped over and around by swathes of rich plum purple. To the Xaela, it was a color that meant balance and harmony, unity and sanctuary. It covered everything, like the Mol’s red back home. Tables and chairs, horsebacks and floors. And people. Beautiful designs woven across robes and pants and tunics, encasing arms white -scaled as well as black . Something she had never seen before excepting her own reflection .
Would these people know her? Recognize her? Would they be able to tell her from where she came, and from whom?
S he remembered herself a moon before, sitting by the river with her friends , smearing her arms, her legs, her neck and cheeks and horns with rich loam. She had lain out in the sun, per instruction, waiting for it to dry and harden, all of them waiting with bated breath for the transformation it would bring. She remembered her secret, keen disappointment when, later that eve, the water from her bath had washed away their efforts so easily.
No more, she thought, as she clutched Temulun’s hand in her own tiny one and they passed under a familiar archway bracketed by matanga tusks. N o more loam, n o r ashes, nor ink for her scales . N o more hood s to cover her horns. No more targeted threats to her loved ones’ safety for the sole Raen girl in their midst.
No more reminders that while she was not Xaela, she was Au Ra.
In her young eyes, the color purple meant belonging.
“Perhaps,” she edged, and accompanied her response with a carefree shrug. Hien’s brow perked with his curiosity. The frequency of the gesture almost made her smile.
“You do not know?”
“I was adopted into the Mol as a baby,” she explained, her gaze finding the clan’s village in the distance, still lit from within with the warm light of bonfires. “Then, when I was seven, I was given to the Malaguld, as a means to ensure I would not...stick out, quite so much on the Steppe. The Mol were already regular targets of the more aggressive clans. My being among them only made the eyes on their backs larger, hungrier. Like wolves preying on sheep.” She recalled Cirina’s words.
“And you were a lamb with white horns,” Hien interjected, and gave her a light smile. Odzaya snorted at his quip.
“So I was.”
“Then no one ever told you your origins.”
“No. I suspected some might know, but I never inquired much, to be honest.” She shrugged easily. “While the differences between myself and the others may have bothered me as a child, as time passed, it no longer seemed to matter as much. I was hardly the only person in the world without parents or a known history, and though I may not have shared a story with any of those who raised or grew with me, we shared a home. That came to be enough. They were my family, both clans, and I would do my utmost to protect them.”
“And so you entered the Naadam,” Hien concluded. It was not a question; nevertheless, Odzaya nodded.
“We had experienced raids since I was a child. Every time, we lost something, be it our possessions or our livestock, our homes or a person.” She brow dipped with the weight of old trepidation. “I grew sick of it. Sick of living in fear. Of being seen as weak.” She looked at Hien, and knew the look in her eye was just this side of ferine. “Lamb though I was, I had my horns. Eventually, I sought to learn to use them.”
“I can hardly fault you that.” Hien impressed her with a look of his own, his eyes glinting once, fiercely, under the starlight. “I often felt the same as a boy, locked away in the palace, a gilded cage of the Empire’s make. A bird with clipped talons.”
Odzaya smirked. “So you sharpened them with a sword.” On a whim, she reached out, around the bend of his knee, to tap a slender finger on the hilt of his katana at rest between them. “They seem to be serving you well now.” He chuckled.
“That they are. I greatly anticipate using them to capacity in Doma.” He gave her a bracing smile. “And from the prowess I’ve seen, I am sure your horns became rather sharp, as well.”
“They did,” she confirmed. “Figuratively as well as literally.” He laughed, and she continued. “I started practicing swordplay on my own around the age of twelve. Poorly. Then Organa found me out and set me on the proper path.”
“The Malaguld’s khatun?” Hien smartly recalled. “She certainly seems a formidable woman.”
“At the time, she was still only a hunter, though one of our best; after she discovered my secret interest, she took it upon herself to train me, if only so I wouldn’t accidentally kill myself. She periodically took me on her trips out into the wilderness to procure the clan’s meals, and used those trips as her lessons. She taught me how to properly care for armor and weaponry, to inspect for damage or wear, to be cognizant of the effects my wielding could have, both good and bad.” Odzaya chuckled. “All before she ever let me actually use anything, mind you.”
“The role Organa played in your life is sounding increasingly like the role Gosetsu played in mine,” Hien commented, shifting his cross-legged stance and lacing his fingers in his lap. “He taught me, too, the arts of war. My father asked him to, as a means to simultaneously occupy my time, temper my apparently boundless energies, and teach me discipline.” He shrugged his scarred shoulders. “Obviously, he would have done so himself, but balancing both the kingdom and the Empire’s grip on it understandably took precedence.” He smiled. “At the time, of course, I did not comprehend the scope of such politics. All I knew was that my father was the greatest samurai in Othard, renowned for his bladework. If he would not teach me, I declared, no one would.”
“Well, well. And how’d that work out for the little master Shun?” Odzaya asked, raising her brows at him expectantly. Hien shot her a mock scowl, reminded of the closely-guarded secret she was made privy to that first night after their official introduction. Then it melted into something sheepish.
“Spectacularly, once I finally managed to surface from the pond Gosetsu tossed me into in reply.” Odzaya chuckled.
“Saw that one coming.”
“If only you had been there to share your foresight,” he said. “Was Organa’s handling of you equally as rigorous?”
“Well, she never threw me anywhere, if that’s what you’re asking,” she quipped. “She was tough, but fair. Strict when she felt she needed to be, but forgiving of my mistakes, and always willing to lend an ear to listen or a shoulder to lean on.”
“You sound close,” Hien commented with a smile. Odzaya returned it.
“She is my sister, as much as she was my mentor. In truth, I had hoped she would participate in the Naadam with me. It seemed almost obvious to me that she should. Even after I began hunting on my own and overcame Bardam’s Mettle, I still saw her as the best we had.” Her smile sobered. “If anyone could have changed our lives for the better, alleviated the fear we lived under, t’would have been her.”
The hollow of her horns rang. High above, silhouetted against a dusky sky, their yol circled, surveying the surrounding land for more prey. Their current catch, a pair of wandering baras, had breathed their last long ago, their tusks gleaming with a morbid beauty in the dying sunlight. She could already imagine the work ahead, the skinning, deboning, and tanning that would be done upon their return.
For the first time, n one of it mattered. Only the rejection that echoed between them, caught between their locked gazes. “What?” she finally asked, and felt shame as her voice came out hoarse with shock.
Organa sighed, her glowing-ember gaze amused. “You heard me.”
Odzaya’s heart sank. “But why not?”
“Because,” she began, approaching their quarry. With a light grunt, she flipped one baras over and kneeled, inspecting its hide for damage. “I am tired.”
“Tired?” she echoed. “Of what?”
“Clans,” her sister answered simply. “Rules, rituals.” Odzaya shook her head, watching her work.
“I do not understand.”
“Mother is getting older,” Organa declared suddenly. She tapped a tusk’s tip with her finger, nodded with satisfaction. “She has thus decided it time for me to consider taking her place in earnest. For the past three moons, I have spent my mornings, afternoons, and eves in the main yurt, listening to the oh-so-wise prattle of our elders.” That amusement in her eyes turned exasperated. “Gods know I love them, but they love to talk. About history, about hierarchies, about the unpatched holes in the roof. About everything and nothing.” She gusted out a breath strong enough to riffle the fur under her inspecting fingers. “I leave those walls yearning for one thing: to get away. Gather my bow, grab my yol, and go hunt.” She looked up at her. “I am tired. And now you bring this up.” Her tone held no serious accusation; nevertheless, Odzaya felt the sting of something like it.
“Do they not also gather to discuss routes for the clan to take to best avoid trouble? To take stock of our resources in the case that we’re pillaged? Plan funeral rites in advance for those we will inevitably lose to both?”
Organa sighed. “Dzaya–”
“Are you not tired of hearing that, as well? I am.” The older woman lifted her brow, a smirk forming.
“You’ve been eavesdropping.” Her brow rose higher. “Again.” Another non-accusation. Odzaya boldly straightened her spine, inclining her head stiffly.
“Yes.” Organa chuckled.
“I thought I saw a shadow lingering around the yurt’s entry-way. Should have known it was not the stray muu shuwuu it looked like,” she said, playfully referencing the younger woman’s pink hair, fairly glowing in the orange of dusk. Odzaya pursed her lips.
“This is serious, Gana. We are courting disaster. Entire clans have been lost to the recent goings-on, and we are on the road to becoming next. We all know it. We have to do something.”
Organa’s smile dropped, and she finally returned to her full height. “ And by ‘something’, you mean participate in the Naadam,” she concluded. Odzaya nodded determinedly.
“We’ve tried negotiations over the years, yes? The more powerful clans have laughed at us; the neutral ones have shown us little more than pity. What option is left but to fight for our survival?”
“So you would have us go to war for our peace.” Organa crossed her arms, humorous pretense diminished to near nothing, her gaze penetrating. Odzaya met it with her own.
“Is that not the way of the Steppe?” she challenged in turn. Organa smirked.
“Aye, though I always hoped to avoid falling prey to it.”
“We’re already prey, Gana,” Odzaya argued. “Scavengers on our own lands, hunting for scraps with our tails between our legs like packs of starving gedan.” She clenched her fists, summers’ worth of fear and anger rising like bile in her belly. “The Naadam has been used for epochs to take our livelihood from us. Why should we not use it in turn to take it back?!” She took a breath and let it out, swore it came out hot like steam from a whistling kettle, or a dragon’s maw.
“And what of numbers?” Organa came back. “You would have the refugees among us take up arms they do not have, and fight another potentially losing battle for freedom? The same kind that took their families and friends away from them once before?”
“I would not ask them to fight if they did not wish to,” Odzaya said. “So many of them have weathered enough conflict, enough violence. The Naadam is not theirs to win. Rather, it should be…” she paused. Met Organa’s steady gaze with her own trembling, and knew she heard her.
“Ours,” her sister finished for her. Let out a gusty breath of humor as she looked away. “Of course.”
“You’re one of the best warriors on the Steppe,” Odzaya said. “And you taught me. And I’ve been training, far more than you think.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “The others say–”
“That you’re special?” Organa interrupted, knowingly. Odzaya’s mouth snapped shut, lips pursing tightly with surprise. Organa smirked. “Do not think you’re the only one who can hide in the shadows, little muu. I have heard all about your burgeoning reputation as a supposed chosen of Azim.”
H eat bloomed in the younger girl’s cheeks, blessedly hidden by her scales and dark skin, and she briefly dropped her gaze to the ground, embarrassed . “They are not my words.”
Organa chuckled. “I know.” She met her eyes, her own curious. “Is that why you so desperately wish to participate in the Naadam all of a sudden? Because you’ve convinced yourself that you are blessed?”
“Of course not,” Odzaya denied with a fervent shake of her head. “But regardless of whether it is true or not, could not the belief alone grant us an advantage? Maybe some of the clans will feel too threatened to fight!”
“You are playing with the Sun’s fire, Dzaya,” Organa said, her brow knitting severely. “The stronger clans will not take kindly to talk of some Raen girl toting herself as a daughter of the Dawn Father. The Oronir especially will be quick to prove your claims false, especially when one of their sons is claiming the same.”
Magnai. Odzaya failed, she knew, to keep the scowl completely off of her face as she thought of the arrogant young princeling with whom she had often clashed. “I could take him,” she boldly declared. “I’ve done it before.”
“Aye, but what of his followers? Could you take them? Could we, the two of us, alone against the brunt of thirty or more other warriors, all vying for your light-blessed blood?”
“At least we could try!” she burst out, frustration making the words echo through the dry air between them. She almost immediately regretted it, her tail reflexively lashing about her ankles with agitation, and she cautiously eyed her elder sister for her reaction.
Organa, to her surprise, merely smiled and huffed a laugh. She shook her head, and the motion was that of fondness.“You always were a dreamer,” she murmured. The amused affection wrapped around the statement, just this side of teasing, made Odzaya’s cheeks warm once more, though it allowed her to regain her composure. She straightened.
“This isn’t just a dream, Gana.” This was not her sitting by the river, a child smearing rich loam onto her horns and praying in vain for a miracle. “This is something real, that we can make happen.”
“Mm,” the woman intonated. “So you say.” Her smile diminished. “But at what cost?”
Odzaya fell silent. Organa pressed.
“To participate in the Naadam, a clan must have the resources. ‘Tis a privilege, and one we do not have. Our khatun is growing old,” she restated. “Our warriors are few. We both are two of them, and I am her successor. If we take part, and lose, that leaves our clan with two less protectors, two less hunters, and no leader for the coming years.”
“Then we proposition for additional warriors from other clans,” Odzaya suggested, regaining a foot, or so she thought. “Surely, they would join us, yes?”
“At risk of putting themselves in the same vulnerable position? Risking their warriors, their sons and daughters, what fragile stability they have?” Organa shook her head, her expression still fond, if more somber. “That is not going to happen, Odzaya,” she said.
“But–” She tried once more.
“I will be khatun,” her sister continued, cutting her off. “Sooner than I would like. And I must begin making decisions for the good of our clan. The ins and outs of every rule, the ups and downs of every choice. What is worth risking, and what is not.” With suddenly sharp, unyielding eyes, the eyes that made her a warrior, a leader, she met Odzaya’s gaze, and the younger woman felt her stomach drop abruptly to her feet with her heart and hope. “The well-being of our clan, of all our clans, is not worth risking. My succession is not worth risking. Your life, Odzaya, is not worth risking.” She shook her head once more. “Not for a dream, however sweet.”
Silence stood between them, then, at the end as it had at the beginning, broken only by a stiff breeze and the shriek of their yol, a confirmation of newly discovered prey, and then the buffet of powerful wings as they descended. She watched Organa tie and truss up their quarry, then silently secured a baras corpse to and mounted her yol, giving his mane a stroke when he chirped with concern.
The entire trip home, she kept her fingers buried in his bountiful feathers, hoping to stop their shaking.
“I imagine she had her reasons for choosing not to participate,” Hien ventured. Odzaya nodded, slowly, momentarily afloat in old disappointment.
“She did.” She shrugged, regrounding herself with the motion, and smiled with a shake of her head. “Nothing I wanted to understand at the time; too young, too stubborn. All I knew was that, between us, we had the power to make a difference. To make peace happen. To make dreams come true.” She let out a quiet, calming breath, then chuckled and looked down at her feet, idly kicking her legs against the air. “Or at least my own.”
“And what was your dream?” She looked up. Hien watched her, his gaze unexpectedly soft. Odzaya took a breath and looked back down.
“A land with no suffering,” she said, quietly. “A land where children could laugh, and none need live in fear of what tomorrow could bring.” Strangely self-conscious, she wrinkled her nose and sniffed lightly, then turned her sights up to the stars. “It seemed like something worth fighting for. Even if I had to fight for it alone.”
“So you did,” Hien asserted.
“So I did,” she confirmed. Then she huffed out a laugh. “And soundly lost.”
“The Naadam you spoke of eight years past, during which Magnai came away the victor,” Hien recalled, his face lighting briefly with realization. “T’was the same Naadam that you participated in, yes?”
Why did it feel like she was revealing some long-withheld secret as she nodded? “Turned out Gana had been right to refuse,” she confirmed. She shot him a brief smile. “Should have known, looking back. She’s never been wrong about anything.”
“Would knowing have stopped you from trying?” Hien asked.
“Probably not.” She chuckled once more. “Such is the way of a dreamer, I suppose. Or a fool. Every possible odd stacked against you, and all the world telling you not to bother, and still you feel you must at least-”
“Try,” Hien finished for her, and smiled, the gentility in his eyes magnified by the starlight seeping into their depths. It was a gaze not of sympathy, but empathy. Understanding.
Her heart thumped, once, hard as Bardam’s fist against her rib cage.
When she fell from the Dawn Throne, the wind that should have stormed past, igniting the hollow space of her horns, was little more than a whispered breeze. The short, sharp shriek of her yol as the arrow pierced his heart and he fell headlong beside her seemed little more than a small whimper. The clamor of those below, of Organa screaming her name, were a murmur, heard at a thousand malms’ distance.
H er descent was marked by Magnai’s grim mien and Daidukul’s savage grin as he lowered his bow. She wondered what they saw. An opponent defeated. A pest removed. A star once claiming to be the sun now setting , and burning away her dreams in its wake.
When her body hit the ground, the pain was strangely muted. Her skin ripped, her muscles tore. Her bones shattered, arms, legs, and ribs. Her spine was like a twig, so easily did it give against the earth, and the resounding crack of her skull, the snap of her horns breaking, resounded through her head like a hammer on stone.
A would-be star fallen back to earth, where it had always belonged.
Her vision whited out, her breath hitched with the puncture and subsequent collapse of her lungs. Her heart ceased with a last, desperate pulse. And yet, she was told later, her eyes remained clear. Locked on the sky as if in a trance, as if they saw something. As if merely daydreaming, even as her body went cold.
Which made it slightly less surprising when, moments and a small eternity later, her heart resumed its beating once more.
“Do you regret what happened that day of the rebellion?” she asked suddenly, unable to resist the inquiry as they stared at one another, as she pondered whether or not her interpretation of the look in his eyes was correct.
Hien blinked once, then smiled bittersweetly. “That depends,” he said, and lifted his gaze to the stars. “Do I regret the ease with which we were overrun? Yes. My lack of experience, my failing strength? Yes.” He took a deep breath, and when he next spoke, the pain in his voice sounded like sand caught in the back of his throat. “Do I regret the lives lost? Of course. My own stubbornness, my insistence that the fight continue even after my father fell and our forces were scattered? Yes.” He paused, lowering his chin, his gaze aimed at a middle distance she suspected led to a battlefield. “But do I regret that day in itself, joining my father and my fellow samurai and fighting for what I knew to be our dream, fools though we mayhap were for pursuing it?” His focus returned and he leveled it on her, and within its gentleness was a glittering steel that reminded her distinctly of his blade. “No,” he declared, quiet but firm. “I cannot say that I do.”
The line of her back hurt again. Odzaya shifted minutely in a vain attempt to alleviate the ache, then started in surprise when Hien suddenly chuckled. “What is funny?” she asked.
“My father,” Hien answered, surprising her again. “He used to say that one cannot fulfill any dream alone; there is always another, sometime, somewhere, whose presence or actions, no matter how small, aided in its actualization.” He laughed again, then deepened his voice in what she assumed to be an imitation. “‘One of this star’s great truths’, he insisted it was! ‘And a good ruler never forgets it’.”
Odzaya smiled softly. “Your father sounds very wise.”
“Aye, he is. Was.” He smiled back, then cleared his throat gracefully. When next he spoke, the sand had been swept away, leaving only the natural warm rasp of his voice behind. “Thus why I am here, pursuing what has been so deemed as impossible. ‘Tis the least I can do for those we lost.”
“And those we can yet save,” she finished reflexively. He gave her a confused look. “You sound like a friend,” she explained.
“A beautiful saying,” he said admirably. “Your friend sounds very wise, as well.”
“She was,” she said, in unintentional mimicry, and that heart-achingly gentle look returned to his face in response.
“Did she have dreams of saving the world, as well?”
“She did. It’s why the Scions exist. Why we’re here, in essence.”
“Well,” Hien said. “Full glad am I for her generous aid, then, as well as yours.”
“Are you sure?” she questioned him suddenly, a smirk finding its way onto her lips. “No qualms with accepting the aid of a supposedly gods-blessed usurper who seduced her way onto a throne after failing to claim it legitimately through warfare?”
“A fair question,” Hien remarked, his expression brightening. “Do you have qualms with aiding a foreign prince arrogant enough to insert himself into a series of sacred rites in hopes of procuring an army with which to liberate the homeland he himself failed to protect?”
She giggled. Could not help herself, as the absurdity of both their situations dawned on her. “Sorry,” she said, going to cover her mouth, remembering her earlier folly with the Buduga trio. “Poor habit.”
Hien managed to surprise her once more as he answered by letting out a laugh himself, deep enough to jostle her slightly as his shoulders shook. “You are certainly one of a kind, my friend,” he declared. “Of that, there is no doubt. I can see why the Buduga and Oronir find you so intimidating.”
She cleared her throat, slightly embarrassed. “Hardly,” she replied, with a light roll of her eyes. On another whim, she pushed her shoulder lightly against his for his jest, and smiled when he laughed again.
She had never iterated her story to anyone, she realized then. Not even to the Scions, who had only recently even learned her true name. How strange that, guided by a fit a nostalgia here in the middle of her long-ago homeland, she would share it with someone who, for all intents and purposes, still counted as a stranger.
A stranger, who seemed to understand only too well what guided her, fool dreamer that she was.
As they calmed, Hien smiled down at her, and his warmth she felt through her sleeve was reflected ten-fold in his eyes. “T’would be an honor to have you at my side in our fight for freedom, my friend,” he said, his expression sweet as boortsog. “I do not believe I can imagine anyone else, in truth.” His grin turned toothy as he returned her previous motion and gently returned her gesture of touching his shoulder to hers. “Questionable repute notwithstanding.”
“I assume that means I will be able to count on your support, then, when the Buduga inevitably bring forth their claims against me to the other clans?” she asked, half sarcastic. The prince chuckled.
“Rest assured that my word and blade will be yours to use against your detractors if they are so needed.” He sealed his declaration with the respectful lowering of his chin to his chest, another jesting display that somehow managed to convey sincerity all the same. “On my honor as your comrade and a warrior of the Mol, dear khagun.”
“Then it is only fair, I suppose, to pledge my stave to you in turn, as fellow warrior and khagun,” she offered. “At least until your country is yours again.” With a mild flourish of her fingers, her stave materialized in hand, its polished wood and delicate filigree gleaming under the moonlight. She held it out before them and waited, pleased when Hien understood enough to grab his blade, his expression curious. As he held it out to mimic her own, she tapped her weapon to his, the silver filigree marking her stave pinging satisfactorily off of the gold lining his sheath. “A gesture of fellowship,” she explained, “and promise of solidarity. At least until this dream of yours is fulfilled, we walk in crimson together.” After all, you did help me fulfill mine.
“Another beautiful gesture, and one I take deeply to heart,” Hien said. His eyes fair sparkled. “I look forward to seeing the hosts of Garlean soldiers that will be running from your wind, rocks, and quality boulders.” Her answering grin was wide.
“Only the best for those I threaten to squish.”
S he stood on a precipice, as she had when it all ended . Her bones still ache d with the process of healing, her horns only having regrown most of their tips in the last several moons. It hurt to walk, to bend, to sit, and the daggers, the bow that were once extensions of her self, now shook within the hold of her hands.
And yet she lived. Against all odds, against the land itself , she breathed.
“Why?” she had asked Temulun. Her old khatun has smiled with a wisdom fit for a goddess.
“Star do not fade before first casting their light. Travelers cannot depart from a destination they have not reached.” Her smile had deepened. “Dreamers will never fully wake from a dream that has not been fulfilled.”
W hen she had held out her hand, Odzaya had felt no choice but to approach. Her spine had protested with every step, and more so when she had crouched near Temulun’s chair. She had closed her eyes in relief when the older woman’s hand had found her brow, cool to the touch against the heat of her forehead, already perspiring from the exhaustion of merely walking the several fulms she had. “I am hardly in a state to travel, eji,” she had said with a self-deprecating smile.
Temulun’s eyes crinkled . “So you say, my dear.”
“Magnai said he does not wish to marry me,” she had blurted suddenly, her skin itching for reasons for reasons she could not name. “That I should leave here. Leave the Steppe.”
Temulun rubbed her fingers against her diadem of scales, soothing. “He sees you for what you are. Even his eyes, so taken by the light of the Sun, cannot deny the truth.”
“What truth?” she had asked.
“That you are no moon, my dear, however beautiful,” Temulun had said. “You shine on your own, brighter than any jewel, any singular body.”
S he had swallowed hard. “Maybe once, eji. Not now .” And then laughed, the sound choked quiet with tears. “I cannot even fly, anymore.”
Again Temulun had smiled. “So you say, my dear.”
“What should I do?” she had asked, suddenly, feeling lost, like the tiny Raen girl she once had been, unknowing of her origins. No beginning, she had thought. And now no end. “Can you tell me? Can the gods?”
“The gods are always speaking, Odzaya,” her eji had said, then, and her eyes had fairly glowed with love. “You are better equipped to hear them than you think.”
She stood on a precipice, as she had at the end . But the end of what? An engagement, a season, an era. A dream, never fulfilled.
But maybe not herself, as she had originally thought.
In the corners of her mind, she heard a voice, quiet and gentle. Come, it said, and when she sought its origin, she found herself facing the direction of the far-distant sea.
She stood on a precipice, as she had at the end. This time, she would not fall, she would leap.
Leap, and let herself dream again.
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catherinestuart · 4 years
Text
a study in tartan: she & him, away from prying eyes the royal mòd at rothesay, scotland, circa. nov ‘19 ( feat. @beaufort-a )
there was a certain feeling that settled in the pit of her stomach as catherine walked off stage after her speech and made her way back to the royal box, for next to her customary seat sat a man who would conceivably be by her side long into the future. a relationship that her mother once referred to as ‘mere colleagues’, one that theoretically held no hope for love or other unnecessary emotions. they sat within a respectable distance of one another, the specifics of which might keep royal commentators and reporters alike amused for the next week or two, arguing with each other if the match was one ill-conceived and hurried or borne out of true feelings. the princess might be able to argue for both sides ( because she can, and have done so in numerous occasions ) for they were both somewhat true. hurried, because the situation in england was dire at best, and simultaneously borne out of the true feelings of ambition. what might happen at present, however, might serve more entertaining to those who paid attention. 
he sat, almost lazily but still without contempt, and watched the proceedings with rapt attention, occasionally leaning down to say a word or two into her ear. a question, perhaps, about the reasoning of the song choice or to inquire about a translation that he did not quite understand. it was half-way through the show when several keen-eyed audience members had noticed how the prince’s arm was draped across the back of the princess’ chair, the fact of which made every single article the very next day. even the prince consort and the queen did not enjoy such closeness during their engagement period, and somehow that had set younger scots aflame. he hovered still as she made her rounds after the event, sharing quips and conversations with the marquess of bute’s children, a constant presence yet a little out of reach. it was when catherine lost herself in discussions of domestic politics with various members of parliament did andrew found his way back to her side, his hand brushing her’s as he listened, enthralled. she almost wanted to hold his hand then. almost, but not quite.
they made their way back to her home, a private estate that was given to her for her twenty-first birthday from the duke of atholl, with the retinue of performers as well as glittering members of the scottish high society in their wake. mount stuart house shone with light, overflowing with champagne and mirth, with their crown princess and her prince in the centre. it was then did catherine held the possibility of their little lives constrained in scotland, without the added english titles that might make andrew a king, and for once, she did not feel sorry for it. there was music and dancing after a day of duties, shared between them somewhat, but still principally her’s, yet it did not seem too terribly bad. not when she danced and laughed and drank under the moonlight and the brightly lit chandeliers, not when he held her hand in his and kept her close. maybe, just maybe, this might be enough. maybe she could get used to just this.
but soon the guests start to tire, dropping off one by one to their own country estates, until there was only the two of them left. she looked at him then in the dim light of the hallway between their palatial rooms, fingers intertwined with his as the words that came out of her mouth were soft and hazy. 
“don’t go-- stay.”
perhaps it was the alcohol mixed in with the look in his eyes that had made her brave, but her fingers tugged on his and he followed. there was a little smug twist of his lips that she quite like to erase, and even before her feet stepped into her rooms that she did just so; by leaning up and putting her lips on his. the quirk in the corners of his mouth were frozen for a split second, and catherine could feel his heartbeat in the back of his neck as her fingers found their way there. he crowded her with one step, winding his arm around his waist and the other pushing the door open behind her back. it was in the safety of her rooms did she pull back, a childish smile -- perhaps accompanied by a laugh -- threatening to consume her features, for catherine stuart had found herself enjoying kissing her intended! who ever thought the day might come? certainly not her. 
the laughter died on her lips as she was picked up off her feet, his lips upon her own with a new sense of urgency that she slowly came to love. thankfully, he managed to back himself up onto a sofa, as she unceremoniously, uncharacteristically, hiked up her dress so that she might straddle him between her thighs. her breath caught in her throat when they parted for a breath, his eyes boring into her’s as her fingers found either side of his shoulders, wondering blandly if they could go back to being so blasé around each other after that night. 
“did i neglect to mention how beautiful you look tonight?” 
she pursed her lips, feeling the moment slip through her fingers even as her fingers trailed up the side of his face to hold him against her palm.
“you don’t have to go through the compliments to get to my good side, you know. we’re already engaged.” 
“no, i know. but i just think that it needed to be said, surely.” 
catherine had to kiss him for that admission alone, and the taste of his lips lingered even after she pulled away. 
“has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look?” she retorted, almost fiendish in her attempt to deflect the attention away from her own vanity. but she remained under the gaze of his eyes, and it had somehow made her entire body warm enough to make her shudder. 
“yes, of course, more times than you think.” 
she laughed out loud then, and he followed suit, letting his hand comb the wayward strands of gold that fell into her eyes. it was with shameless pleasure did they stared at each other, grins upon lips and laughter just nearly bubbling through. the alcohol had given them permission to do what curious hearts only had the courage to consider, she kissed him once more on the lips, as if she’s been made to do just that. 
“i can get used to this.” 
her hand came down to smack him playfully on the shoulder, and he smiled against her lips, leaning up to bring her impossibly close -- a breath caught in her throat. there was an unplaceable look in his eyes that made something constrict -- almost painfully -- in the pit of her stomach. suddenly her fingers were pushing his suit off of his shoulders, and his hand undid the impossibly tiny clasps of her dress better than she ever could. but catherine’s mind went to overdrive, the way her mind tends to do, and flashed a million nasty outcomes that might arise from their current situation. chasing pleasures without a thorough examination of the logic and efficiency wasn’t at all common for someone like her. it was almost impossible. she was by no means a good girl but rather, a sensible one, and sensible girls do not do this. 
“we shouldn’t.” 
“hm?” 
“we’re... drunk,” she was faltering now, face pink with embarrassment. “we don’t want things to get awkward.” 
( because the work of power and governance was more important than this, that their ambition still had higher walls to climb )
-- or let her overthink their entire relationship into the corner, making them unsalvageable at best. he opened his mouth to speak, before closing it again, a sort of resignation in his eyes that almost made her choke back her words and ignore her overthinking. but she did the very opposite, stepping back onto her feet and keeping a hand on her dress to stop it from falling off. already, her mind chanted that ‘everything is alright’, that they’ll ‘be better off tomorrow’, that it was ‘just the alcohol’. ( even though she could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers in her hair, and his slow smiles against her lips ). her heart screamed something unfathomable.
so catherine mumbled something about taking her makeup off, and getting into her pyjamas before scampering off into her en-suite. the woman that stared at her from the mirror did not look like her, all flushed with thoroughly kissed lips, she could almost hear her thundering heart in her ears. 
( it was a few minutes later when she resurfaced, eyes still bright, did she realise that he had left. although really, what else did she expect? ) 
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onlymorelove · 7 years
Text
Fic: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (2/4)
Title: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (2/4) Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan Summary: Sometimes love is found in unexpected combinations. Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed. Notes: You can read Chapter 1 here. This also takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise. These stories are all set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together. Word Count: 2264 Rating: T Chapter Title: We all break the same. (From Mute Math’s Break the Same.) Warning: Nothing graphic, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.
Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.
Tagging @extasiswings, @gwennieliz, and @qqueenofhades . (If anyone else wants to be tagged for future updates, just let me know.)
If you read this, thank you. Feedback is treasured.
[Part 1]    [Part 3]    [Part 4]  
Garcia raised red, ravaged eyes to them both. He held the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled grip, the rest of his body so stiff and strained he would probably shatter like warped glass if either she or Wyatt touched him. Lucy knew —no, she felt it burning in her stomach—how badly he wanted to run.  To cry in front of her, to know that Wyatt had witnessed any of it, well, he would view it as a show of weakness. Stupid man.
Lucy sat in a chair, motioning for Wyatt to do the same. Who knew how long they’d be there? She met Garcia’s gaze directly, determined not to shy away from his pain. If only grief were an alternative fuel; between the three of them they still carried enough to power a small city.
Garcia pressed a hand to his chest, just over his heart. His eyes closed, and he swallowed, throat working. “It’s my daughter’s birthday, Wyatt,” he said. His eyes were still closed, as if he couldn’t stand to look at them when he said the words. “She would be ten years old today,” he said, voice rough, two stones rubbing against each other.
They sat suspended in crystalline silence for a breath, then two. Then: “I’m sorry. I know…I know that doesn’t change anything.” Wyatt straightened in his chair. “It doesn’t get easier, does it? To lose your kid…” He shook his head, at a loss for words.
Garcia opened his eyes, his gaze narrow, sharp as bladed steel, and twice as likely to draw blood. “I didn’t ‘lose’ her. She wasn’t simply misplaced, like a favorite but replaceable trinket. Here today, gone tomorrow, but no matter because I can go buy another one.”
“I know that.” Wyatt sighed and rubbed his temples, and Lucy patted his back in sympathy. Their lover possessed an unfortunate knack for taking their words and twisting them into tangled skeins they found nearly impossible to unwind. “Geez, come on, Flynn. You know I didn’t mean it like that, and—”
Garcia’s brow furrowed, then smoothed out again. “I know what you meant,” he said, his tone strident as he interrupted Wyatt. “And I appreciate the sentiment,” he added, softer this time.
Would you look at that? Maybe she could teach an old dog new tricks, after all.
“Do you really?” Wyatt said, nose wrinkling, and Lucy stifled a laugh at the skepticism threaded through his voice.
“I do.”
“Well, you didn’t let me finish what I was saying.”
“I…apologize.” Garcia inclined his head. “I have been told I am not always the world’s most attentive listener.”
“Really?” The one-word question was delivered in a tone as dry as the Sahara.
Garcia’s mouth curled at the edges, and he waved carelessly, motioning for Wyatt to continue.
“Jessica and I, we didn’t have kids.” Wyatt smiled, but it was a smile that held no mirth, only a deep sadness. Lucy reached out and stroked his hair, keeping the pressure feather light;  he accepted her attempt at comfort without comment, leaning into her touch. “Always thought there’d be more time for that someday.”
“Ah, the folly of youth.” Garcia’s lips mirrored Wyatt’s, forming an equally joyless smile. His voice sounded sympathetic, though, free of all mockery.
Wyatt shrugged, nodded once, and cocked his head to the side, almost as if he was listening to something she and Garcia couldn’t hear. He blinked, then seemed to return from wherever he’d gone for those few seconds. Jessica.
Lucy felt a dull throb of jealousy before she silently scolded herself for the uncharitable emotion. She knew all too well that she couldn’t compete with the siren call of history and memory. Wherever Wyatt had gone for those moments, she reminded herself, he was here now, with her and Garcia.
“Yeah, something like that.” His eyebrows drew together, and he scratched his chin, his expression thoughtful as he contemplated Flynn.
Lucy watched and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long.  Garcia steepled his long fingers, staring back at Wyatt without blinking. “Whatever you’re thinking, Logan, just say it.”
Wyatt pulled up his foot, propping his ankle on his other leg. “Sometimes you act like you hold a monopoly on suffering. Sure, my kid wasn’t killed, but I know what it’s like to lose someone.” He paused, tipping his head toward her. “So does Lucy.”
She nodded. “I do.” Fingering the locket around her neck, she struggled to picture her sister’s easy smile. With each passing day, that became more and more difficult. That hurt her more than she ever mentioned to Wyatt or Garcia, the guilt suffocating in its intensity.
Wyatt pointed in Garcia’s direction. “Your wife and daughter were taken from you.” He tapped a thumb to his own chest. “My wife was murdered.” His hand clasped her shoulder, fingers warm and steady, like the man himself. “Lucy’s sister never existed; the man she thought was her father died; her biological father’s a Rittenhouse crony, and so’s her mother.” Wyatt’s hand moved off her shoulder, and Lucy shivered, suddenly cold and exhausted.  “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone.”
“You think I’m not aware of that?” Garcia flashed Wyatt an incredulous look.
“I think it’s easy to get caught up in your own pain and forget you’re not alone.”
“Believe me, this is not a competition to see who has suffered the most.” Garcia cleared his throat. “Since Iris and Lorena were killed… Since I tried to bring them back… The things I’ve done….” He shook his head, frustration limning every line and angle carved in his elegant frame. “Sometimes I feel like there’s nothing in here but a black hole that has swallowed everything.” Flynn’s jaw clenched. “Do you understand?” He leaned forward and  thumped his chest with an open palm. His wedding ring swung out from beneath his shirt, gleaming a dull gold in the dim light of the kitchen. “Everything good and kind and worthy; everything that makes a human, human.  I don’t want it to swallow you.”  He regarded each of them in turn, his gaze imploring. “Either of you. You deserve better. You can have better.  I—” His eyes closed as he covered his face. “I don’t know if I have anything left to give anyone. To give you and Lucy.” The words were muffled by his hands but still discernible.
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
Garcia’s only reply was a sharp shake of his head, and Lucy discovered that yes, there were still parts of her heart left to break.
“Don’t hide from me.” Wyatt’s chair screeched against the floor, the sound jarring, as he shoved it closer to Flynn. He tugged Flynn’s hands away from his face, curling his fingers around his wrists, where Lucy knew his pulse thrummed. “You. Me. Us. This. It…works. And we need you.” He looked at Lucy for just a moment; she nodded, once, feeling her eyes go misty. His fingers shifted to Garcia’s face, cradling his cheeks with both palms, while Lucy stood and settled her hands on both their shoulders. “ I need you,” Wyatt continued, echoing the words Lucy had said to him at the Alamo so long ago. “I need you,” he repeated, without a trace of hesitation in his voice.
Garcia captured one of Wyatt’s hands in his own and traced the lines in his palm with an unsteady fingertip. “There’s blood on my hands,” he said, eyes and voice holding a bone-deep weariness. “There’s not enough water in the world to wash it away.”
With his free hand, Wyatt pulled Lucy onto his lap. With his other hand, he linked fingers with Garcia’s. “I know. And I still want you. I still choose you. We all have blood on our hands. I’m tired of it, too. I’ve killed when those were my orders—when someone told me it was the right thing to do—and I’ve killed when I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I just don’t want to do it anymore. But what’s left for me? I’m still alive.” He smoothed a hand over Lucy’s thigh. “Am I just supposed to crawl into some hole for the next 30-40 years? I know I can’t make up for the lives I’ve taken. But I have choices; we all do. I can still choose to try to do some good in the world. So can you. That’s up to you, though. You can choose to run, Flynn. So you don’t have to care; so you don’t have to lose anything or anyone else; so you don’t have to try do something good or right. You have to choose. Not me. Not Lucy.”
Having said his piece, Wyatt released Garcia’s hand and slouched back in his chair with his eyes closed and Lucy curled against his chest. Minutes rolled by in silence, and Lucy began to think maybe Wyatt had done the unthinkable and rendered Garcia Flynn speechless for the first time in his life. Lulled by the quiet and the steady heat of Wyatt’s body, she started to doze off, her body finally surrendering to a drugging combination of fatigue and emotional upheaval.
“I’m impressed,” Garcia said, snapping Lucy out of the warm, sleepy haze she’d succumbed to. “That was quite a speech, pretty boy.”
“I may be pretty”— here he paused, opened his eyes, and bit his lip with a knowing look—“but my mouth is good for more than sucking your dick.”
Garcia dissolved into a coughing fit.
“Wyatt!” No question she was wide awake now.
Garcia sniffed. “There’s no need to be crude.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” Wyatt muttered, scrubbing at his hair until it stood up in five different directions..
“Behave,” Lucy said, giving him her sternest look and digging her fingers into his midsection, right where experience told her he was super ticklish.
He batted her hands away, wriggling in his seat. “Why? We all know you like it better when I don’t.”
Flynn and Wyatt exchanged smug looks, suddenly co-conspirators allied against her. Garcia groaned, then winked at her. God, she couldn’t take it when his eyes twinkled like that. “Lucy, you walked right into that one.”
Unable to dredge up an appropriately scathing comeback from the depths of her tired brain, Lucy settled for sticking her tongue at them both. Her men laughed, the sounds mingling sweetly, and a feeling of lightness swelled in Lucy until she was helpless to do anything but join in. And with that, much of the tension bled out of the room.
Flynn sipped his chamomile tea, mouth curling in distaste.
“It’s probably cold now. I could make a fresh cup,” Lucy offered.
“No, thank you, Lucy.” He set the mug back on the table, tapping his fingers against it.
“How ‘bout something stronger, Luce?” Wyatt wagged his eyebrows suggestively, grinning.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Lucy groaned. “Wyatt, the sun isn’t even up yet.”
Wyatt’s grin widened, and he nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s shining somewhere.”
She couldn’t argue with that, so she didn’t.
Lucy nudged Garcia with her foot. “What kind of cake did Iris like?” She leaned back against Wyatt, letting him run his fingers through her hair again and again while she melted into a puddle of goo in his lap.
Garcia snagged her ankle, pulling it into his lap. When he pressed both his thumbs deep into the bottom of her foot, she sighed at the impromptu foot massage. “She didn’t like cake.” The corners of Garcia’s mouth tilted up, just a little, in the ghost of a smile, and Lucy waited patiently for him to say more. “I think it was something about the texture.”
“Oh. OK. So what treat did she usually have on her birthday?”
“Chocolate chip cookies,” he replied, and his eyes were full of remembrance.
“Mmmm. I love chocolate chip cookies.” Wyatt licked his lips. “Your daughter had good taste.”
“Yes, I suppose she did. She loved chocolate chip cookies. More than anything, she loved ‘helping’ her mother in the kitchen, Lorena always said…” His voice trailed off, and Lucy wondered if he’d continue. “…She always said it took her twice as long to cook anything with Iris’ help.” He sighed and looked away. “They would make chocolate chip cookies together on her birthday.”
“Then it’s settled,” Lucy said, yawning and standing up. “We’re making chocolate chip cookies.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now, Wyatt.” She tried to inject her voice with energy. “Seize the day,”
“It’s almost 5:00 in the morning. Can’t we seize the day after we go back to bed for a few hours?
“Come on. Don’t you want chocolate chip cookies for breakfast?”
Garcia watched them silently, hands folded loosely over his stomach.
Lucy grabbed Wyatt’s hands and tried pulling him out of his chair. He didn’t budge. Clearly her methods of persuasion needed work. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Please. It’ll be fun.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “It’ll be good for Garcia.”
Heaving an enormous sigh, Wyatt got up and scratched his chest. “OK. Fine. Just let me put on a shirt first,”
“Leave the shirt off.”
Hands on his hips, legs akimbo, Wyatt said, “I’ll have you know I’m more than just a piece of meat, ma’am.”
With her arms wrapped around his waist, Lucy kissed Wyatt’s shoulder. “Just who are you trying to convince?“
Wyatt gave a long-suffering sigh as he was sandwiched between both Lucy and Garcia in a hug.
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fire-fira · 7 years
Text
Strangeness is a Necessary Ingredient
Thank you for 250 followers!
Originally I intended this fic to be for my 200-follower mark, but a bunch of you popped up before I could get it done by that point. (And I’m glad for all of you. n.n)
The inspiration for this one is directly owed to my wonderful fiance @radioactive-earthshine giving me this prompt: “Will you let me rub your back?” Eddie to La'gaan, bonus for it being a body exploratory/body image/self esteem boosting fic >:3
Also, the title of this fic is owed entirely to this post (a sentiment which Eddie fully agrees with).
So here it is after long last-- a super-fluffy Devilfish fic, placed early on in their relationship. I hope you enjoy it. n.n
Strangeness is a Necessary Ingredient (Ao3 version)
It was a small request, but not one that La’gaan would have expected. Of course the idea that Eddie (who he’d been going out with for about a month now) would actually want to touch him wasn’t that unusual in the logical sense, but there was a part of him that couldn’t help but be surprised anyway. Then again La’gaan still had a hard time believing that Eddie thought he was attractive in the first place. Wonders never ceased.
“Can I?” Eddie asked. He was parked on La’gaan’s bed, nervously sitting next to the atlantean with hopeful golden-glowing eyes locked on La’gaan.
“Don’t know why you’d want to Devilfish,” La’gaan said honestly.
The fire-wielder gave a fond smile and gently bumped his shoulder against La’gaan’s. “Maybe because I’m your boyfriend, you’re wonderful, and you look like your entire body is a giant knot?”
Eddie was right, La’gaan was pretty much a giant knot of tension, but that’s what came from having been thrown through a wall or three on their last mission. It still didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t expected Eddie to offer to help. “You don’t have to. I’ll manage. I always do.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “Okay, now you’re just being stubborn. C’mon, what will it hurt? You get a massage, I get to run my hands all over your back, we both win.”
La’gaan aimed a confused look at Eddie. True, he liked the fact that Eddie kept making passes at him, but sometimes he just didn’t know how to react. After a moment or two he finally said, “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Nope!” Eddie agreed, his eyes glowing a touch brighter in mirth.
“And you called me ‘stubborn’,” La’gaan scoffed.
“Stubborn enough for you,” Eddie grinned before scooting a little closer. When La’gaan didn’t pull away, Eddie took that as a good sign and asked again in a much more subdued tone, “Will you let me rub your back?”
For a moment the atlantean hesitated, but against that look of genuine concern and affection he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘no.’ He sighed, then quietly said, “Alright Devilfish, you can.” Eddie beamed before hugging him enthusiastically. “What’s this for?”
Eddie gave him a quick peck on the cheek before he said, “For being the most wonderful boyfriend ever.” Letting La’gaan go, Eddie pulled his legs up onto the bed and turned to maneuver around on his knees to get behind La’gaan before sitting down again.
Glancing back over his shoulder, La’gaan said, “I dunno about that. Pretty sure I can be a pain in the ass.”
“A gorgeous pain in the ass who isn’t anywhere near as obnoxious as he seems to think he is,” Eddie insisted with a smile.
It was hard for La’gaan to not laugh at that, mostly because he was torn between the warm feelings that bubbled up at the compliment and disbelief that it was true, while knowing that Eddie wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t honestly think it. “I’ve mentioned you’re weird, right?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
Eddie’s smile turned into a grin as he leaned forward, one warm palm coming to rest on La’gaan’s shoulder, and said, “Even before I started making passes at you,” before kissing La’gaan’s cheek again.
Looking away, La’gaan huffed, “And you’re still weird.”
“You love it and you know it,” Eddie teased before bringing his other hand up to settle on La’gaan’s other shoulder. For a moment or two he just let the warmth radiate from his palms into the atlantean’s shoulders. “Let me know if I need to drop the heat a notch or two, or if I should shift away the claws, okay?” La’gaan gave a grunt of agreement, and then Eddie got to work.
Despite himself, it didn’t take long for La’gaan’s eyes to slide shut in contentment. The warmth from Eddie’s hands helped relax his tense muscles and smooth away the aches briefly made sharper by the massage. A small part of him couldn’t help the knee-jerk reaction of feeling self-conscious as those surprisingly strong fine-boned hands danced over his back, but he ignored it in favor of reveling in that perfect level of warmth. (How Eddie just knew that exact right temperature was a mystery to La’gaan, but not one he was going to complain about.)
As for Eddie, while he carefully kneaded away the knots in La’gaan’s back he was reveling in the feeling of finally really being able to run his hands over La’gaan; the shining green scales slick one direction and slightly scraping against his palms in the other captivated him. Just feeling how the muscles of La’gaan’s back rippled under his hands almost made him blush at the thoughts it called to mind, but easing La’gaan’s discomfort was much more important. Then there was the slight gradation on La’gaan’s scales from green to the darker, almost black, green of his stripes and fins— a gradation that would have been impossible to see as anything other than a solid line if Eddie hadn’t been so close. The glow from Eddie’s eyes slightly illuminated La’gaan’s back, and the warm light gleaming on La’gaan’s darker scales and fins made Eddie think of a clear emerald, backed by black velvet with faint glimmers of light shining through. In his opinion it was breath-taking.
Eddie worked his way down La’gaan’s back to his waist, chuckling at the appreciative groan that elicited, and then worked his way back up again before turning his attention to La’gaan’s arms. He was tempted to move to touch the fins on the back of La’gaan’s head, but he had a feeling that if he tried it too soon that La’gaan might flinch away on reflex. As he worked on La’gaan’s shoulders Eddie carefully threaded his fingers around the small shoulder-spikes, which turned out to be far more solid than he had expected. This close he could see the specialized scales for what they were, and he couldn’t help but vaguely wonder if La’gaan ever shed them in their entirety or if he just shed the upper layer like a snake. Not that he minded either way. He also couldn’t help wondering if they were ever sharp or if the tips were permanently rounded. Shoving the thought aside, Eddie traced his fingers around the shoulder-spikes, giving just enough pressure and heat to help unknot the muscles before continuing on.
It was as Eddie was slowly kneading his way down La’gaan’s right arm that La’gaan said, “Devilfish, when did you get so good at this?”
Eddie shrugged. “There were a lot of random skills I learned in my aunt’s studio when I was younger. Knowing how to give a pretty good massage was one of them,” he said without looking up from his focus on La’gaan’s arm. “My aunt used to turn into a bundle of knots on the more demanding days and I wanted to do what I could to help her. One of the set guys, guy by the name of Desmond, used to be a physical and massage therapist before he got into set-design. Pretty much made it his mission to teach anyone he could how to give a proper massage so they wouldn’t risk screwing something up and making it worse, so he taught me. Figuring out about the whole heat thing obviously came after I ended up like this.”
“No, I would’ve thought you’d figure out how to control your temperature before you had your big shift and it became an issue,” La’gaan said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
Eddie briefly paused and made a face at La’gaan in response. Turning his attention back to La’gaan’s arm he retorted, “What, like how you should have been prepared to be on land before you ever stepped foot on land?”
“Smartass,” La’gaan said, almost smiling despite himself.
“Takes one to know one,” Eddie smirked. Once he was satisfied that he was done with La’gaan’s right arm, wrist, and hand, he scooted over a little to focus on the other arm. As his fingers dug in around the shoulder-spikes he added, “Not that I’m complaining. The fact that you’re such a smartass is kind of hot actually.”
A bark of laughter escaped La’gaan before he could restrain the impulse. He could have dropped it, but going with the thought he’d had felt less awkward than falling silent. “Anyone ever tell you that you have weird tastes?”
Eddie snorted. “If we’re going to get into another bout of you insisting that you’re ugly, you’re gonna lose.”
“Weird and slightly delusional,” La’gaan said in deliberate tease.
Eddie looked up, his brows knitting together slightly. After a moment or two he said with a huff, “I grew up around actors. I know beautiful when I see it. And stereotypical beauty-standards are bullshit.”
La’gaan raised his eyebrows, his expression one of mild disbelief. “Are you seriously saying that you think I’m ‘beautiful’?”
“‘Think’ nothing; I know,” Eddie insisted as he carefully massaged soothing circles around La’gaan’s wrist before working on his hand. “You are one of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever met. I meant it when I said that I honestly would have thought you’d have a ton of people throwing themselves at you. If I had thought that I had a chance before that day, do you honestly think I would have hesitated to ask you out?”
La’gaan wanted to argue, to disagree, to insist that Eddie wouldn’t have been interested, but he was. If Eddie hadn’t been interested he wouldn’t have kept making passes at La’gaan— he wouldn’t have even started making passes at him in the first place!— and they wouldn’t be in the situation they were now. When La’gaan had been with M’gann he had always felt like she was absolutely stunning and he was nothing next to her, and as such he could only be grateful that she had ever bothered to look his way. He hadn’t realized that she had deliberately encouraged those feelings of inadequacy until after the relationship ended. And yet, Eddie continuously (and relentlessly) insisted that La’gaan was attractive to the point of almost being distracting at times; it was difficult to reconcile.
“There are plenty of other people,” La’gaan cautiously hedged.
Eddie snorted before deliberately leaning in close, his chest pressing against La’gaan’s bare back, left hand still on La’gaan’s left wrist and his right arm snaking around La’gaan’s waist so that he could say right next to La’gaan’s ear, “And I chose you. No one else. Just you. Believe me, I wouldn’t keep having distracting thoughts about having wild make-out sessions with you if I didn’t honestly think you were hot as hell.”
For probably the first time La’gaan sputtered, briefly at a loss for words as a blush flared to life on his cheeks; no one else had ever made him feel so flattered that he didn’t know how to react. Despite himself, he didn’t want to pull away from Eddie either. It was weird feeling that knee-jerk impulse to pull away simultaneously with a surprised and giddy happiness that almost drowned out the impulse. Finally he said in a flustered grumble, “Keep saying things like that Devilfish and one day you’re going to kill me.”
The fire-wielder chuckled, pressed a kiss to his shoulder while briefly hugging him, and then pulled away to go back to the massage. “Somehow I think you’ll build up a resistance eventually; like if I keep calling you ‘beautiful’ enough then eventually you’ll stop choking on air when I say it.”
La’gaan glanced back over his shoulder and made no move to pull away when he felt Eddie’s hands return to his back and slide up to rest on top of his shoulders. “I don’t know. Pretty sure I’ll die before then,” he said. Eddie prodded La’gaan’s side with the tip of his tail, somehow managing to find the one ticklish spot without even looking, earning an involuntary squawk and a brief attempt from La’gaan to twist away in the process. “ACK! Devilfish!”
Eddie snickered and said, “You deserved that. And just for that I’m going to call you beautiful every chance I get.”
That earned a huff from La’gaan, along with an attempted glare over his shoulder that didn’t come off anywhere near as serious as he wanted it to. “You’re weird, have weird tastes, and I’m pretty sure you’re a little crazy.”
Eddie cocked his head to the side and arched an eyebrow. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re the one who agreed to go out with me. So, ‘Your Normal-ness’, I don’t think you have much room to talk. Besides, we already know that you think I’m hilarious.”
La’gaan hesitated for a second, then playfully insisted, “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re weird.”
“And you’re my perfectly weird boyfriend who looks downright normal next to me,” Eddie grinned before gently nudging La’gaan’s jaw with two fingers. “Come on Beautiful, let me work on your neck a bit more and your fins. Then you can complain about how weird I am to your heart’s content.”
La’gaan was surprised, so much so that he complied and turned his head to face forward without really thinking about it as he tried to process that Eddie had said what he had. It wasn’t that he considered Eddie touching his fins as overly intimate, but more that it hadn’t even occurred to La’gaan that Eddie would want to; because if being covered in green scales hadn’t been weird enough to make Eddie shy away from touching him (and it hadn’t), then La’gaan had assumed that his fins at least would be ‘too weird’ for Eddie to want to touch. That, combined with the spontaneous affectionate nickname threw him for a loop. And then those warm hands began gently massaging his neck and around the base of his skull, effectively distracting him from his thoughts.
The warmth just seeped in as Eddie’s hands slowly worked their magic. By the time Eddie shifted his focus from La’gaan’s neck to the fins on the back of his head, the atlantean was almost a puddle of bliss. La’gaan had overheard some of the others (most notably Mal and Karen) commenting about how a really good scalp massage done right was almost enough to block everything else out, but not having experienced it before he’d had his doubts. Now? Now those doubts had flown out the window, leaving La’gaan with the certainty that if Eddie was perfectly happy with keeping it up for an hour or two he’d let him.
Eddie was thoroughly pleased with the way La’gaan just melted in relaxation; that was what he wanted to see. To Eddie’s way of thinking La’gaan had a tendency to get too wound up and aggravate the problem by bottling everything up until he nearly exploded. The fact that La’gaan had been thrown through a few walls didn’t help. But this, the way that he was getting La’gaan to just melt and make occasional noises of pure bliss, this felt like a step in the right direction. He hadn’t known what to expect when it came to the texture of La’gaan’s fins, but he found they were surprisingly sleek but soft. It almost reminded Eddie of the belly of a snake—sleekly scaled and smooth but with a softness and warmth that he loved the sensation of, yet in some ways La’gaan’s fins felt far more fine despite the regular ridges of cartilage that reminded Eddie of the ray-like pattern of a lion fish’s spines. As much as he liked the feel of La’gaan’s fins, it was nothing compared to the way the atlantean was melting from the gentle massage— now that was far more endearing. Really, if La’gaan were capable of it he would have been purring.
Eddie gave a pleased hum before saying, “I know I’ve said it before, but you are absolutely gorgeous. You know that?”
La’gaan grunted, a sound that would have been a derisive snort if he wasn’t so consumed with melting under Eddie’s hands. “And I still say you’re weird and have weird tastes.”
Eddie leaned forward to whisper by La’gaan’s ear teasingly, “And if you keep that up Beautiful, I’m going to start making out with your neck and turn you into even more of a puddle of bliss.”
La’gaan blushed, his eyes cracking open as he tried to turn his head to ineffectually glower at Eddie. He couldn’t find it in himself to be as annoyed at Eddie’s smug pleasure as he wanted to be. Finally he settled on saying, “Devilfish, I love you, but shut up before you kill me.”
Eddie grinned in response, his tail delightedly weaving through the air behind him and flashing in and out of La’gaan’s range of vision. “That wasn’t a no.”
Neptune’s beard, it was like the fire-wielder was trying to drive La’gaan into an early grave! Of bliss. With a really good massage. A really good massage. And he might have been succeeding. A little.
La’gaan gave a groan, half-pleased and half-frustrated. “What is it going to take to get you to stop trying to make me choke to death while you’re giving me the damned massage?”
An amused laugh as those wonderful hands worked their way over La’gaan’s fins again. “Hmm… Maayyybe accepting the fact that you’re one of the sexiest people in the world that I’ve met and that my knowing that you’re one of the hottest isn’t something I’m saying just to be ‘nice’?”
“Anything else?” La’gaan grumbled. It was proving almost impossible to come off even a tenth as irritable as he wanted to. A good idea then to never get into an argument with Eddie if Eddie’s hands were on his fins; there’d be no way he’d win.
Eddie considered for a moment before adding, “As a matter of fact…”
“Oh no.”
Eddie scooted forward so that his knees were bracketing La’gaan’s hips, his hands sliding away from La’gaan’s fins to wrap his arms around him so Eddie’s chest was flush with the atlantean’s back, and his chin resting on a scaled shoulder. “There is one more favor you could do for me that would get me to stop for a while.”
“Being?” La’gaan asked cautiously. He hoped Eddie didn’t notice the way his heart had suddenly started pounding— though he had a feeling that Eddie did because Eddie had a tendency of noticing everything— but, somehow despite the near-panic and fear of rejection, La’gaan had no desire to pull free.
A smile tugged at Eddie’s lips. “Accept the fact that regardless of what anyone else thinks, in my eyes you’re so beautiful that there are times I go completely stupid around you and forget how to breathe; and that no matter what happens that opinion isn’t going to change. You’re stunning, you’re wonderful, and more than that? I love you.” He kissed the tip of La’gaan’s ear to punctuate his point, earning an ear-twitch that almost resembled a shiver.
La’gaan repressed the urge to tremble at the sudden Poseidonis-sized wave of happiness that threatened to overwhelm him, and brought one of his hands up to cover one of Eddie’s. He might have been able to hold back on trembling, but he couldn’t keep the smile from creeping onto his face. When he finally trusted himself to talk without making a complete fool of himself he quietly said, “Devilfish, you’re too good to me.”
Eddie snorted in laughter and briefly squeezed La’gaan a little tighter. “On the contrary, I’m giving you everything you deserve. Just sometimes you’re a little hard-headed and I have to be obnoxious in order to get through to you. So far I’m ten for ten though, so I think it’s working.”
La’gaan arched an eyebrow as he glanced over his shoulder at Eddie, but his smile was getting more blatant despite himself. “‘Ten for ten’?” he echoed, “Do I even want to know?”
Those beautiful glowing eyes brightened with mirth, and the brief pressure from Eddie’s fingers against La’gaan’s chest showed that he was counting off his points one by one. “Getting you to smile, getting you to laugh, getting you to trust me, getting you to realize that someone up here enjoys your company, getting you to realize that I wanted to be your friend, getting to actually be your friend-”
“Mm. Didn’t make that one easy,” La’gaan agreed, his own amusement showing through.
“-No you didn’t, you goof,” Eddie said before continuing, “Getting you to realize that my making passes at you wasn’t a joke, getting you to start returning my flirts— even if half the time you didn’t mean to at first, getting you to go out with me, aaannnnnddd… getting you to let me give you a massage and touch your fins. Which I wanted to do for a while.”
La’gaan didn’t know what to do about how flattered he felt. He did know that he was perfectly content staying right where he was though. Finally he settled on, “You’re weird. You’re a sap, but you’re still weird.”
Eddie snorted, kissed right behind La’gaan’s ear (which elicited a subtle shiver that he filed away for later) and retorted, “I’m your sap, so get used to it.”
La’gaan hadn’t blushed so thoroughly in his life, but oddly enough he didn’t mind. “Love you too Devilfish,” he said while trying to sound long-suffering— but despite himself La’gaan couldn’t stop smiling, and he knew that Eddie wasn’t fooled for a moment.
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