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paper-n-ashes · 3 years

Text

sparks and embers - chapter 1

Characters: Poe Dameron x Original Female Character, Kylo Ren x Original Female Character

Story Tags: Explicit (18+), Canon Compliant/Divergent (Set after TLJ), First Person POV, Love Triangle, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Porn with Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Kylo Ren hates Poe Dameron

Summary: Alexys is a doctor living a life of exclusivity on Raxus, hoping to survive through a peaceful existence, concealing herself from those she believes would use her, or kill her. When fate intervenes and instigates a perilous journey she'd been desperately trying to avoid, Alex finds herself caught in the middle of two sides in both war and love.

Preface: Let me say, I am immensely nervous about this. After months of back and forth inside my mind, I’ve decided to go for it and begin the long process of moving my long running series to Tumblr, along with changing the name (something I’ve wanted to do for a long time). I hit a big emotional road block after over a year of writing and posting, so I’m hoping this move will eventually get me back into the swing. But for now, I’m looking forward to revisiting the beginning of this space love triangle.

If you’ve already read the saga, absolutely NO pressure to read again. Each chapter will be edited a little, but no major plot points will change. To any newcomers who find themselves interested, the story is already posted on AO3 if you are desperate to continue. Otherwise if you prefer reading on Tumblr, or simply like the forced breaks between chapters, I’ll be posting a new chapter every couple of days. I know it’s not written as reader insert, but I just couldn’t make the story work out in any other fashion. I poured a lot of love and heart into Alexys so I hope you’ll give her a chance.

Chapter 1 - Crash Landing

Words: 3.4k

Chapter Tags/Warnings: descriptions of severe injury including blood and bone, medical procedures

Read on AO3

I felt it before I heard it.

A booming crash of metal and glass, sending a shattering vibration through the walls and furniture around me. After the years of mostly silence I’d become accustomed to, the noise that came pummelling into my ears almost made me shriek in surprise. It was short lived, coming and going in a flicker so quick I had to wonder if it was real at all.

Lights began to flash, blinking rapidly in uneven time. The mixture of harsh beeps indicated something was faulting my electricity circuits, plunging me into the darkness of night over and over.

I could only question myself again at the plausibility of this being a dream, but the slow, increasing creak emanating from beyond the walls of this building brought me to a certainty.

Something had crashed outside.

Fear radiated through my limbs, leaving me stuck where I was standing for a few moments, before an uncontrollable urge of selflessness and honestly, curiosity, forced me to move and exit the safety of my clinic.

There wasn’t really a way to prepare for what I saw not metres away from my front entrance. A ship, an X-wing of some variety, was wrecked into itself, varying metals twisted and curled over each other, flames beginning to billow out from the creases. I could feel the heat of them rise as I cautiously stepped forward, taking in the scene with wide eyes. Only seconds had passed when I saw it – the movement of something – no, a person, demanding my attention. The pilot of this battered machine had been thrown just beyond the edge of its hull, broken transparisteel smattering the ground around them.

Hm, the Resistance should probably investigate their flight safety measures.

That thought quickly flittered away when the pilot moved again, this time with a painful moan echoing into the atmosphere. The switch inside quickly flipped, and an all too familiar feeling of conviction flooded through.

This is your cue Alexys.

I raced quickly to the pilot and knelt on the ground before them, fingers carefully removing the black and red helmet with both urgency and restraint as to not cause any more possible damage to their head or neck. The moan I'd heard just moments before let me know this person had some kind of airway, but it was pertinent I assess further. With the helmet gone I noticed the short, lightly waved black hair of a man, his eyes pulled closed, a few bruises and smudges of grey soot smattered over his face. His chest was moving, laboured breathing with the occasional heave on inhale.

At least he’s breathing.

“It’s alright,” I insisted. “I’m here to help you.”

There wasn’t any discernible response from the pilot other than a groan that withered away slowly, and that in itself was worrying. Kneeling over his body, I placed two fingers under the line of his jaw, halfway down, trying to feel for a pulse. I could sense the thump of blood under my fingertips, but it was too slow, too faint, too uneven.

Not great, but it was enough for now.

I began to scan over his body, knowing it was time to assess what was giving him reason to cry out in pain. There were severe burns on his left arm which had caused some of his flight suit to stick to the skin, with more scalds reaching down to his torso and abdomen. His right arm was almost definitely broken with the limb morphed into an irregular angle almost halfway along.

Without being able to look at them directly to ascertain whether I was going to be able to move him, I pressed on his hips gently, silently praying he hadn’t broken his pelvis. He muffled softly, but anyone who had actually shattered the bone would have screamed. As my eyes continued to scan down, it became obvious all too suddenly the shattered edge of his right femur bone poking out of the orange flight suit.

Kriff, this is not ideal.

I wanted to kick myself for not noticing it before, but there was no time, not with the very real possibility of him bleeding out in front of my eyes. My feet moved under me, racing back to the clinic room, knowing where the bandage and splint lay waiting, along with the anaesthetic injections I had stocked in the pharmacy cupboard.

He was certainly going to need them.

Within minutes I was back to the ground with the pilot, clicking together the injector handle and vial, piercing the needle straight into his thigh above the fracture site. I wouldn’t be able to wait for it to dull most of the pain, so internally, I braced myself for the scream I was about to elicit from this poor human's chest. The second I started to wrap the bandage around the splint, a piercing wail echoed through the air, almost causing me to hesitate. Still, my hands continued to haphazardly wrap the white material around his leg, pushing through the guilt it ignited.

Suddenly, the noise stopped.

My eyes darted to his face as his head slumped over on its side. “Hey!” I shouted into his face as I scrambled back to the top end of his limp body. “Hey can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me!”

There was no response.

I pinched at the muscle on his shoulder, harder and harder to elicit any kind of reaction. Nothing. My hand pulled into a closed fist and grinded against his sternum. “Come on, open those eyes if you can feel this!”

Still nothing.

Again I took check of his breathing, chest still rising and falling, yet shallow and with little power. His heartbeat had begun to race, but through my fingertips I could feel the strain in the muscle. Something was seriously wrong, even more so than his other injuries. Something internally. If I didn’t get him into the clinic, he was going to die.

In a snap decision, I chose to forgo an attempt to run back and locate the hover-stretcher. It would take too much time to set up and power on, time this man didn’t have. I would have to move him myself.

How the hell am I going to do this?

With my arms hooked and locked under his armpits I began to drag the pilots hefty body backwards towards the clinic behind me, thankfully only a few meters away, barely making it past the entryway when a roar of flames overtook the X-wing. I looked up to see the blaze almost completely engulfing the ship, a ferocious heat searing into my eyes and face. With even more urgency I heaved the body into the large clinic room, getting up and slamming the door just in time. Just before a house rattling explosion sent shockwaves into the atmosphere.

Lucky didn’t seem to be an appropriate feeling considering the situation I was in, but at least no one had died. Yet. With my last bit of brute strength, I hoisted the pilots limp body onto the closest hospital bed, noticing then the trail of red liquid I’d brought along with me.

Oh no no no.

With him still lifeless, I tugged at his body and limbs to lie flat on the bed, scurrying to my medical trolley and hauling it back to where the pilot laid, ragged breaths still thankfully escaping into the air. Snatching the heavy shears from the top drawer, I began to tear through the thick fabric of the flight suit, unclipping and removing as much of the life support vest and belt as I could. I had to be careful not to rip away the fabric that melted into the burns scattered all over his body, the number of them increasing as I peeled away the suit, starting from his legs, up to his abdomen and chest over to his upper arms. His torso was in full view now, a smattering of dark hair over his pectorals, underneath which showed the bruises of his crash’s impact.

Oh he’s definitely got some broken ribs.

As my gaze scanned over his skin, I could finally isolate where all that blood had escaped from. A deep penetrating wound just below the last rib on his left flank. As I registered his quick shallow breaths and the uneven rise in his chest, it became obvious.

Collapsed lung.

Whatever had pierced through his chest had poked an extremely damaging hole in his lung, the pleural space now filling with air, leaving no room for his lung to expand. My following movements were swift and calculated, almost automatic. A pointed scalpel was soon in my hand, poised to cut. But I couldn’t help but hesitate. It had been so long since I’d had to do this. And yet, somehow, concern for this stranger’s life was quick to weave it’s way through, dissolving my fear into pure resolve.

I made my incision in between the 4th and 5th ribs, using a clamp to push into the underlying tissue and past the pleural cavity, a gloved hand then entering to check I’d made it through. With an instinctive confidence, I guided the chest tube between the layers of tissue, undoing the ratchet of the clamp to an immediate rush of air. The pilot’s chest heaved in relief, along with my own.

One crisis averted.

But there was more to do. Connecting a drain to the tube, I haphazardly sutured it in place, before flying to the pharmacy cupboard. My stock of bacta was limited, returning with an already prepared vial into the pressurised injector, reminding myself I would need to use it sparingly if this stranger was going to make it through the full extend of his injuries. I had cursed at myself only a few times in the years past at being so far removed from a higher level medical centre that would be overflowing with bacta and medical droids that could help in exactly this kind of situation, but the thought had never burned me so badly. There was no way to know if I could keep this man alive with the resources that yesterday I had been more than comfortable with. I would just have to try.

I injected some of the bacta solution throughout the surrounding area of the wound and covered it with heavy dressing, knowing the bleeding would quickly be curbed. Unfortunately, the wound itself would take a few days to fully close, only ever being able to afford lower quality bacta. Before moving on to the burns, I placed some basic monitoring, lines extending from electrical dots over his chest, wrist and neck to the data monitor above the bed. As the numbers lit up on the holo screen, I felt myself breathe a small sigh of relief, having prepared for a much worse result. His heart rate was better, oxygen levels returning to normal, blood pressure not optimal by any means but high enough to sustain his life, for now.

After securing an oxygen filter over his battered face, I continued to inspect and clean as many of the small and more sizeable burns dotting his body. Even with the many I had uncovered, the one extending from his shoulder past his elbow was the one of most concern. Third degree and extremely unhappy looking. If I wasn’t quick to treat this, it could leak even more fluid from his already compromised circulatory system. I was thankful he still remained unconscious when I began to slowly shed the charred material melted into the skin layer. I couldn’t help but shudder as I remembered the initial scream this man had let out, knowing I would be hearing it now if not for his comatose state.

Covering the immense scald in as much salve as I could spare, I began to wrap it in protective antibacterial bandage, soon moving on to protect his many blisters and deeper burns with dressings. Glancing at the monitor screen, he was still stable, and swallowed hard. Now it was time to attempt possibly the most daunting part of this patient’s treatment.

His femur was still sticking through the tissue of his thigh, slightly dried dark red blood creating lightning strike looking lines extending from the wound.

I need to get some blood into him before moving this.

I quickly got to work on an IV cannula, his poor blood pressure making it significantly more difficult than it should have been. Two bags of O- blood were all I had, and a wave of dread coursed through me with the thought of that not being enough if this all went wrong. My fist squeezed the fast flow pump of the IV line, pushing fresh blood urgently into his system, making his blood pressure rise only slightly. With the last of the red liquid trickling through the line I wheeled over the portable X-Ray. It was so old the mechanical arm screeched at me as I positioned it into place over the pilot’s leg. The bone had to be at least somewhat in place before getting the bacta to work its magic or this guy might walk with two uneven legs for the rest of his life.

If he actually made it through the rest of his injuries, that is.

Shaking my arms out at my side, I sucked in a few deep breaths to build my stamina. Unfortunately, this stranger was stuck with a small framed female to attempt reducing his severe fracture. With one last inhale, I drew the courage to pull as hard as I could horizontally at the knee joint, digging my fingers into a vice grip around the limb and yanking it towards me. To my relief, the fractured edge of the femur to slipped back into the hole it was peeking out from, settling back under the skin.

Thank all the stars in the galaxy he’s not awake for this.

I quickly pressed the image button on the X-ray to assess the progress I’d made. The faint white lines of bone edges were stark enough on the grey background of the image. The fracture wasn’t reduced even nearly enough. I prepared myself again, with another deep breath I pulled hard. This time my efforts were forced into angling the lower portion of bone to try and lock it back into place. The grinding of bone edges could be felt through my fingers, pushing myself to pull even harder, creating more space between the fracture in the hope of giving a fighting chance of lining up the splintered edges. My muscles were whining, begging for this to be over, tears of exhaustion soon stinging at the edges of my eyes.

With one final twisting motion there was a sudden click.

Finally.

My relief was short lived.

It was slow at first, before racing faster. A stream of dark red blood pooling at the wound the broken bone had made.

Oh maker no.

Within moments the pace of the blood quickened. I shot my hands to the open flesh site, pressing down hard in an attempt to disturb the flow. The liquid quickly covered my gloved hands, already sure I’d sliced into the femoral artery. The pressure of my hands into the area made the blood spurt out onto my arms, my clothes, my face, everywhere. The monitor was screaming, blood pressure falling quickly. Wiping some of the hot coppery fluid away from my left eye, I slid my fingers back into the gash, moving desperately to stop the overflow before the man lying in front of me bled out, knowing it would all be my fault.

You have to do it Alexys. He will die if you don’t.

The voice nagged at me, pleading to do what it wanted.

He’s with the Resistance! If he survives, if he contacts them, they’ll find me. And they’ll know.

It is time to decide. His life. Or yours.

Seconds ticked by fleetingly, numbers flashing on the monitor trickling down, the speed of blood flow from the pilot’s leg stubbornly keeping it’s intensity.

Everything I’d done to get here, to isolate myself so no one could find me. It would all amount to nothing. My easy, albeit lonely life, would be gone. All because of this stranger.

But I couldn’t let him die. Not like this.

In one flash, I removed my hands from inside the wound, ripping off my gloves and placing two palms at either side of the leg. With closed eyes, I willed the energy out of the depths of its slumber. From the darkened corner of my mind I pulled it back into existence, opening the gate I’d locked it inside for so long, letting it finally burst through and fill up my brain. From there it down through my neck, through my chest and down my arms, right to the end of my fingertips. Its warming glow was almost comforting, friendly. I would have basked in it for a while if not for the life that hung in the balance before me.

Through the pads of my fingerprints I pushed the stream outwards, connecting past the skin of this innocent human being, and felt the overwhelming heat of pain and dimming of energy.

Hurry, he’s dying.

I began to map out the tissue of his leg, frustratingly slowly, starting at the smallest of capillaries, weaving and winding through the flesh, connecting them through the maze of fat and muscle. I could feel the sweat forming on my forehead, my breathing forced and harsh. The vessels grew bigger as I pushed the energy through, skipping past broken points of other smaller injuries. I could fix them later.

Finally, I felt a molten warmth radiating close to where the maze had guided me. Racing to it, I sensed something pushing me back, the pressure of escaping fluid holding my efforts. I’d found the cut, but now I had to somehow knit it back together.

You’re taking too long.

The alarms of the monitor started to echo with a hollow ring inside my ear, fading until I could hear almost nothing. The world around me was blurry, only the image of vessel tissue and all-consuming redness visible in my minds eye. The energy I was expending began to burn me - I wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer. I reached out with it, what felt like many hands grasping desperately at the severed edge of the vessel, frantic yet delicate, pulling whatever tissue I could hold back into place.

Several fringes connected, the pressure pushing forcefully against me, making it harder to hold. I couldn’t help but begin to shake at the strain, the sound of my own heart pounding over the slowing heartbeat of the pilot. My grip was already beginning to fade before I started to sew the pieces of artery back together, an ache growing behind my eyes as I pierced an invisible needle through the tissue, over and over, still clawing at the unsewn edges as I made my way around the tube.

I was so close, the tension of the fluid still being driven out of the broken seal almost overcoming me. The unseen thread had almost made its way full circle. I was almost there.

My entire body rattled with exhaustion and pain. One final thread wove itself around the artery, its abrupt closure alleviating the strain on invisible fingers that had been clutching it all together.

You did it.

The energy dissipated quickly in a rolling wave, letting it retreat back into my mind, scampering to the secluded area of my brain, hidden once more. I felt light suddenly, dizzy, the world coming back into focus, screaming alarms growing louder. It was too much, all at once.

A sharp pang of fatigue enveloped every part of my senses and I faltered back, knees giving way, slumping to the floor.

Then, there was only darkness.

Next Chapter

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rolandtowen · 3 years

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Prince Zuko was a harsh, entitled boy.

Firelord Zuko is a ruler who makes amends. - a study in the various side characters that Zuko came across in his banishment, and how he repays his past actions.

Read Chapter One on ao3 or under the cut! TW for referenced non-con and colonialism

[I believe @flamehotman and @flameomcfirey wanted to be tagged?]

Chapter One: Song

We will get there when we get there, don't you worry Feel bad about the things we do along the way But not really that bad We inhaled the frozen air Lord, send me a mechanic if I'm not beyond repair

- The Mountain Goats

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon.

Zuko was meeting with the agricultural council, a collection of both scholars and farmers, to discuss best practices for renewing the Fire Nations agricultural trade. For so many decades, the Fire Nation out-sourced its agriculture to land in the colonies and imported much of its food. But with the land being given back, the Fire Nation was either going to have to begin growing its own food again, or import their food at a fair price. The economic committee decided on Monday that reviving the Fire Nation farms would be far more cost effective - and of course, would create more jobs in the Fire Nation. With the war over, the number of soldiers that the military required had dropped dramatically, and there were many citizens without work. Zuko had instated severance benefits for unemployed soldiers - the ones not found guilty of war crimes of course, mostly the young recruits - but it couldn't last forever.

It was maddening. Every time Zuko unraveled one problem, he undoubtedly found or created another one. He was trying, really trying, to keep his people safe. But he also had a duty to the rest of the world. The nations that his lineage colonized, pillaged, and destroyed. He resists the urge to write to Aang, to ask him how he does it, how he balances all of the nations in every action he takes. But Aang is busy, all of his friends are, spread thin to the four corners of the world.

Uncle visits him occasionally, when the letters from staff concerned about Zuko's health pile up on his desk. One too many servants have found him, asleep at his desk, face down in treaty papers. But Uncle has his hands full. He already splits his time enough between the Jasmine Dragon and Ember Island, looking after Azula.

Azula.

She was improving, and that's really all Zuko can ask for. He sees her a couple of times a month, pours her a cup of tea, and they sit on the balcony of their vacation-house-turned-mental-retreat. Most of the time, they don't talk. Zuko won't push her; he remembers his silence in his first few months of being banished, how Uncle had to coax him to say anything at meals. Sometimes the only words he uttered in a day were in prayer before meditation. Zuko had thought to himself, speaking out got me into this mess: I'll never speak again.

He's not sure what words were exchanged between Azula and Ozai before he left her and went to burn down the Earth Kingdom, but he can guess it wasn't good. Few of his father's words were.

So they sit and drink their tea. Sometimes, on a good day, Zuko will fix up Azula's hair for her, and she'll reveal some bits of information that he files away for future examination. Something like, I saw Mom before you came with Master Katara. Or she'll double check her reality, asking, you let Ty Lee and Mai out of jail, right? and Zuko will say yes, her friends are safe, they should be visiting any day now.

As painful as seeing her may be, spending time with Azula is far preferable to sitting through an agricultural council meeting.

He looks down at the paper in front of him, a comprehensive budget list for all of the supplies needed to revitalize the Fire Nation's agricultural sphere. Dozens of machines that he's sure Sokka had a hand in inventing, hundreds of varieties of seeds that Omashu is generously selling to them, and -

Thousands of ostrich-horses.

"Councilor Yichen, can you elaborate on the number of animals in this budget? Certainly with the machines we'll provide, farmers will not need so many working livestock."

Councilor Yichen stands, giving a little bow in Zuko's direction. "Of course, Lord Zuko. While the machines will certainly boost productivity, we only have enough for one per farming village at this point. Each family needs at least one working animal, if not to plow the fields, then to transport goods. We decided on ostrich-horses on a recommendation from farmers in the Earth Kingdom colonies, who found them to be invaluable. An ostrich-horse is, in many ways, more valuable than a machine."

Zuko's stomach settles uncomfortably, but he isn't entirely sure why. "Thank you, Councilor. I understand now."

Yichen gives another little bow before he sits, and the rest of the meeting goes as planned, with the exception of a strange seed of unknown guilt now growing in Zuko's stomach.

"Uncle, do you remember when you made tea out of that poisonous plant?"

Uncle laughs, hands faltering as he pours Zuko a cup of jasmine tea. "I remember, Nephew. How could I ever forget?"

"Do you remember the girl who helped you?"

Uncle takes a sip of the warm tea. "Song. Her mother made the best roast duck." He looks at Zuko out of the corner of his eyes. "Why do you ask?"

Zuko looks out over the gardens. He's able to see the whole palace grounds from where they're seated on the second-floor balcony, watching the sun rise. As far as the eye can see, Zuko is upheld as a flawless ruler, his word taken as law. He's sick of it.

"I stole her ostrich-horse," he murmurs into his tea, taking a sip to calm his nerves. "I just remembered, in that agricultural meeting a few days ago. I - I never knew how essential those were to farmers, I just thought I was taking their ride." He turns to fully face his Uncle. "But I think I took a lot more than that."

Uncle meets his eyes with understanding. "And now you want to give it back."

"I know there's no way for me to fully apologize for how I acted in exile, but it feels like I have to try." The cup quivers a bit in his hands, and so his hands drop to his lap. "I'll need someone to watching over the Nation while I'm gone."

Uncle places one of his warm hands over Zuko's shaking ones. "I'm sure I can deal with your advisors for a few days." He squeezes his hand just slightly around Zuko's. "I'm proud to see that even in a few short months, your wisdom as a ruler is growing. Go, make your amends. The Nation will be here when you return." Uncle calls for Zuko's secretary and tells her to clear as much of the Firelord's schedule as she can for the next week. Their voices fade into the background as Zuko stares into his tea, wracking his brain to try and figure out how to track down just one girl in the entire Earth Kingdom. Sending scouts or soldiers from town to town is a recipe for disaster, and the Earth Kingdom villages have been traumatized enough. He supposes he could always call in a ride on his favorite air bison but - this feels like something he should do on his own.

If Song hates him, it might be hard for her to show it in front of the Avatar.

So he'll go alone. No friends, no royal guard. He'll come into Song's town the same way he came last time - defenseless. She can hate him if she wants, he'll give her that.

And he'll try to give back what he took from her.

He packs light, pulling an old tunic and boots from the back of his wardrobe. Though they've been thoroughly cleaned by the palace staff, the scent of campfires and smoke linger upon them. He grabs a cloak - the Earth Kingdom will be starting to chill at this time of year - and he slips out of the palace, using the servant's entrance to get onto the streets unseen.

Autumn comes quietly in the Earth Kingdom. The trees slowly lose their color, giving the last of their strength into vibrant leaves. Soldiers previously conscripted to fight in the war have either returned to their families or have gone to tend to the scorched earth where the Phoenix King made landfall. They clear the debris of fallen airships, making room for the earth to slowly restore herself.

Song envies those soldiers.

Their lives have changed with the ending of the war, but Song's life continues on, its mundane routine continuing over and over again. She cares for a small garden, crafts herbal remedies for her neighbors, and tries to make her mother comfortable. She curses the Spirits for their cruel sense of humor - her mother survives the greatest war ever seen, lives through the attempted invasion of her homeland, only to be struck down by frailty months after the end of it all. Hasn't she suffered enough? Song has whispered those words to the woods on her way to the well time and time again. Now, her body is just - stopping.

Her mother is dying and there's nothing she can do.

Song knows all living things have their time. And she's seen too many living beings go before their rightful time. But she never imagined her mother's time would be in a time of peace. Wasn't ending the war supposed to stop all this pain? Apparently not. She tries not to become bitter, knows that that's the last thing her mother would want for her, but - it hurts. And there's not a damn thing she can do about it.

The leaves from dying trees crackle under her feet.

She arrives at the well, alone. Her hometown is just barely beginning to wake up, rising from its slumber as mothers bring in dry clothes from the clotheslines and fathers begin to toil in the fields. Children run freely from street to street, with a joy that was forbidden during the Fire Nation's occupation. They're kicking at a ball, passing it from one pair of bare feet to another, and Song smiles at them. Someday, maybe.

She sets her water jug on the stone wall of the well and begins to lower the bucket before hearing the ball make impact and a man's voice grunt, "oof!". She spins rapidly around to see a young man, rear planted firmly in the dirt, one hand rubbing at his forehead while the other wipes at a watering eye. The group of children stand, frozen, and she gives them a look, and unspoken command to stay and apologize to the man they just hit with their ball.

"Here, take my hand," Song holds out her right hand, and the man takes it. When the young man meets her eyes, she almost drops him back in the dirt. He has those amber eyes, and she can just see under his loose hair - a burn scar. "Lee?!"

He stands, brushing dust from his cloak, and she catches the hints of red fabric that lie beneath. She recoils. He sighs. "Um, about that." Song sees his hands tremble against his cloak. "My name's not Lee - and I'm from the Fire Nation."

Song reacts as if she'd been slapped. She trips backwards, away from Not Lee, landing hard against the stone of the well. Her leg is aching, feels like its on fire all over again, looking into those amber eyes.

"How could you? I let you into my home." She braces her hands against the well, her leg threatening to give out at any moment. "Now it all makes sense, that you stole from me. That's all you ashmakers are good for." She spits, and it lands on his scarred cheek. "You take land that isn't yours, take women that aren't yours, you take lives!" Her leg finally collapses, and she sinks to the ground with her back against the well. Not Lee makes a move, and she throws her hands up. "Don't you touch me," she grits out, clutching at her leg. He stills, and she wraps her arms around herself, bringing her knees to her chest. "I pitied you, you know? I thought your mother must've been - I looked at your eyes and thought you were a victim like me, like my mother." Her whole body is trembling, but she doesn't care. "But I bet you know who your father is, I bet you're proud to have his eyes."

Not Lee mirrors her, curling in on himself, not even bothering to wipe his face clean. "I do know who my father is, but I'm not proud of him." He looks up to meet her eyes, and Song is struck by how young he looks. When she'd last seen him, he'd looked gaunt, malnourished, with sharp cheekbones. Now, his face had filled out and he looks - young? The scar makes him look older as well, but when you look on the opposite side of his face - all she can see is a kid, couldn't be older than a teenager.

And he was crying.

Stubborn as he is, Not Lee is resolutely ignoring the tears slowly falling from his eyes, but nevertheless - they fell. Song didn't expect that reaction. Tears are not what she expected from a Fire National. Anger, rage, violence - those are the things she's tasted at the hands of firebenders, but this? This is new.

"I'm sorry," Not Lee whispers, looking at his feet. "I came to apologize, I wanted to repay you for your kindness and return what I took. But I think I've overstayed my welcome." He scrubs at his face roughly with the heel of one hand. "But I am, truly sorry. I acted selfishly the last time I was in your home, and I took advantage of your compassion. And I understand that my nation has done even worse. I'm trying to make it better." He pulls his hair back with a band. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but I would like to purchase you a new ostrich-horse. And anything else you or your mother may require."

Without warning, Not Lee shifts from his seat position to a bowing one, kneeling with his head pressed to the dry earth. Song stares at him for a small eternity, before realizing that he's waiting, unmoving, for her response. For her judgement.

She lets out a small breath. "Okay," his eyes flick up to hers and her stomach twists. The way he bows is so precise - it must have been drilled into him hundreds of times before. Another thing she wouldn't have expected from a firebender. "Come to dinner."

He stands after she does and gives another slight bow. As they begin the walk back to Song's home, he offers to carry her water jug, and Song feels more weight than one lifted from her.

"What did you say your name was again, young man?" Mei pokes at Zuko's shoulder as she hobbles to the table.

"Mom, I'm sorry about her, she's getting older," Song sets a bowl of fragrant roast duck in front of him and Zuko feels his mouth begin to water.

"No, it's okay, I don't think I've actually properly introduced myself." He takes a quick sip of tea - bracing himself for whatever will happen next - and calmly sets the mug back down. "My name is Zuko," he begins slowly. "AndI'mkindoftheFirelord."

There's the sound of Song dropping a bowl in the kitchen, and Mei leans in a bit closer to Zuko.

"Sorry, dear, could you say that again? My ears aren't what they used to be."

Zuko opens his mouth to respond, but Song slowly enters the room, her eyes narrowed in on Zuko. "You said - you're the firelord?" He nods at her, waiting for her to swing a knife at him, kick him out of their home, call some earthbenders to rough him up -

Before his panic can start to set in, Song runs out the front door, slamming it behind her.

Zuko looks helplessly at Mei.

"Give her a moment." Mei brings her pair of chopsticks to her mouth. "Hmm, she still doesn't make it as well as I used to."

"What about you? Do you hate me?"

Mei sighs, putting her bowl down. "I'm too old for hate, dear. My time in this world is almost over. I can't spend it hating world rulers." She takes a sip of her tea. "But Song? She -" Mei sighs again. "She's been hurt deeply by the Fire Nation, in more ways than one. And it isn't just you. But for a long time, the monarchy has been the embodiment of everything terrible that's ever happened to her. And now you're here, standing in front of her."

Zuko nods. "I understand. And I am sorry, to you as well. I don't think I fully understood the reach of the war. I was always taught that the army acted with honor, that women and children were untouchable." He looks down at his folded hands. "I can see that was false."

"Unfortunately, you are correct." She reaches between them to refill Zuko's cup, then Song's, and hands them both to him. "Go to her. A bit of tea should help bring you some good favor."

The screen door opens and closes, and Zuko finds himself out on the porch. Song sits on the edge, absently massaging her leg, peering into the darkness of the forest.

"Can I join you?"

She shrugs, and he takes that as a yes. Handing over her tea, Zuko sits besides her and tries to find what she sees in the darkness.

For a few minutes, the only sounds are those of them drinking and crickets chirping. Then Song speaks.

"His name was Bao."

Treasured. Precious. Rare.

"That's a lovely name."

"What happened to him?" Song turns abruptly to look at him with shining eyes. "Did he...?"

Zuko shakes his head emphatically. "My Uncle and I traded him to a florist for safe passage to Ba Sing Se. The florist seemed like a good man."

"You went to Ba Sing Se?"

Zuko runs one hand down the back of his neck. "I might have conquered it, actually?"

Sing snorts. "That part I've heard about. You've lived an interesting life, Zuko."

"If by 'interesting' you mean messy, then yes." He sighs. "You had no reason to trust me. Why did you let me back into your home?"

Song laughs, tinged with bitterness. "My mother says I'm too trusting, too gullible." She swirls the dregs of her tea around the bottom of her cup. "But I think there's strength in being kind. And I really did want to forgive you. But you have to be ready."

"And do you think I am?"

She smiles softly at him. "For me, yes. But my guess is I'm not the only person you hurt in exile." She gulps down her remaining tea. "They may not be as forgiving as I am."

"I'm preparing myself for that possibility."

"Does it scare you?"

Zuko ponders it. "I think it does. The idea that I've hurt someone innocent so badly that they may never be able to move past it... that keeps me up at night."

Songs turns towards him, tucking her knees up to her chest. "We can't control how other people see us in this life. How they react to our actions is up to them - all that we can control is our response. You have to be ready to accept that someone may not be ready to forgive you, and you can't let that eat you up." She stares at him intently. "You have to confident that your own actions are enough. That they're good."

It's Zuko's turn to laugh sourly. "Easier said than done," his hand wanders to his scar. "Sometimes I'm still not sure if what I'm doing is right."

"You don't have to do it alone, you know," Song gives him an understanding look. "You need other people around you, Zuko, to remind you what's good."

He huffs, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Do you want to be one of those people?"

"I think you have more than enough goodness surrounding you already. You just have to be confident enough to ask." She sighs, looking back out into the darkness. "Besides, I have to stay here with my mother. She doesn't have long."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do? I could send my healers -"

She shakes her head, cutting him off midsentence. "It's her time." She begins to rub at her scars again. "I just didn't know how much it would hurt. We finally have some peace, and suddenly it's her time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, not for this. It's due to you that she'll be able to die during peacetime." Her hands come to her eyes, wiping tears away before they can spill down her cheeks. "Her biggest fear was that she'd die and leave me alone to fend for myself during the war. You released her from that fear. Of course I forgive you, Zuko. My mother's no longer scared of dying because of you."

The two of them are silent for a long time, watching fireflies flicker off and on in the trees, listening to the crickets sing.

"I'm going to find Bao for you."

Song looks up in surprise. "You don't have to-"

"I want to, I'm sure he's still out there somewhere." Zuko rises from his seat. "If you ever need anything, anything, you write directly to me. I'll tell my staff that you're a priority."

"Are you leaving?" Song stands as well. "You could stay, if you want."

Zuko shakes his head silently. "I have to get back, and travelling by night is best for a Firelord who doesn't want his identity revealed," he smiles, his scarred skin relaxing into it. With that, he pulls his hair out of its topknot, grabs his pack and swords, and starts to disappear into the night.

"Firelord Zuko?" He stops and turns back at the sound of Song's voice. She makes the sign of the flame and bows. "Thank you, for everything." He bows back, lower than protocol dictates, but he doesn't care.

Three weeks pass, and the air has turned bitterly cold.

Song again makes her daily trip to the village well, with snow crunching under her feet instead of dead leaves. The soldiers have returned from their work in restoring fields for the season, and so the village feels alive when she steps into it. Despite the chill, children still run in the street, under the watchful eye of their mothers and fathers. Song feels a twinge of longing, but she tries to focus on the happiness she feels for the children instead. Song sets her water jug on the side of the well, breathing hot air into her palms to warm her hands after touching the freezing stone.

"Excuse me, miss, are you Song?" A voice comes from behind her, and she turns to see two men dressed in red tunics.

"I am," she replies, tucking her hands into the pockets of her hanbok. "And you are?"

They bow to her. "We come on behalf of Firelord Zuko, to deliver a gift." A third man rounds the corner with an ostrich-horse on a tether. "We found him at a desert settlement, he's been well taken care of, but if there's anything you need -"

They're cut off as Song runs to throw her arms around the neck of the ostrich-horse. "Bao!" She strokes his beak, looking into his eyes. "Do you remember me?"

Bao cocks his head to the side, pupils widening as he chirps softly, and then he lets out a loud whinny, pushing his head into Song's chest. He purrs, closing his eyes and relaxes against her.

"Sweet Bao, it's really me, you're really home," Song can feel her eyes dampening, but holds it together as one of the men hands her a bit of parchment.

"A note from the Firelord. He wanted us to remind you that you can write to him anytime you need anything."

Song nods. "And tell him I said 'thank-you' again." Bao whinnies loudly again, and she adds on, "Bao says 'thank-you' too."

"Of course, miss." With a synchronized bow, the men depart, and Song unrolls the parchment.

Song,

I've followed your advice and surrounded myself with good people. It helps.

Give my best to your mother - my Uncle still talks about her roast duck sometimes. I've established a fund specially for women and child victims of the war, inspired by some of what you and Mei shared with me. Write me if you feel like you or anyone in your village wants to apply for it.

And, thank you for trusting and forgiving me. I'll try to keep earning it.

May the Spirits continually bless you,

Zuko

She tucks the parchment into her pocket, fills her jug, and finds herself back in Bao's familiar saddle after more than a year. "Come on, Bao," she says as she takes the lead into her hands, guiding them back to the empty farmhouse.

"Let's go home."

[if you read through this whole thing, go drink some water! I'll know if u don't :) ]

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likelightningafterthethunder · 3 years

Text

Like Lightning After the Thunder: Chapter One: Damned Smile

Fic Summary:

His breath wavered as he stared into Katsuki’s eyes. He knew he could get out if he tried. He could knock Katsuki out, hope that no one else would find them, and run back into the shadows where he belonged. Katsuki may have had him pinned down but he was in Denki’s range now and it would take little effort to send a charge through Katsuki to paralyze him temporarily.

It would take barely any additional effort to kill Katsuki.

As the sparks began to charge, lighting up the air around him, Katsuki refused to back down.

–

Katsuki always knew he was destined for great things.

He didn’t think he’d have to turn his back on all he’s ever known to get there.

Rating: T

Warnings: Eventual major character death, implied/referenced child abuse, psychological trauma

Other Tags: Bakugou Katsuki/Kaminari Denki, slow burn, alternate universe - canon divergence

Read on Ao3 (links to corresponding chapter) or read below

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Fic navigation to read the fic on tumblr

Even years later, that damn smile haunted his dreams.

There was absolutely no reason for him to still think about the event. Everything had been taken care of when it had happened― injuries were treated, authorities alerted, information secured, and a press conference to tie it all up in a big red bow. There were no loose ends, no surprise second coming, no physical reminders of what happened lingering in his daily life. Katsuki would have labeled it as done, dealt with, and no longer relevant, shoving it aside in his memory so he could focus on actual important shit.

Except his mind had different plans.

When he was lucky, he could completely forget about the event for months. Other times, his dreams would be filled with nothing but that damn smile, taunting him with its silence. He could usually predict when the dreams would come― the anniversary of the event for example― but other times, it seemed like anything could trigger the memory. He once saw a bright yellow balloon and for the rest of the day, every time he closed his eyes he saw that damned smile, never wavering despite the curses and insults Katsuki spewed.

He wanted to forget it. He wanted so desperately to forget it. For the image to erase itself from his mind, for it to take the feelings away with it. He could deal with the anger, he could always deal with the anger, but when his memory reminded him of the wave of hurt and betrayal that nearly blinded him…

When his alarm jolted him from his sleep and freed him from the smile, he couldn’t get out of bed fast enough. He woke up drenched in a cold sweat, sheets singed and smoking lightly as he unclenched his hands, and Katsuki was, for once, very relieved that not all of his sweat was explosive. He slapped the singes a few times to ensure that all of the embers were put out before heading for the bathroom, cursing under his breath as he flinched at his own reflection in the mirror.

There was nothing particularly wrong with his appearance, if you didn’t count the dark circles under his eyes from a fitful night’s sleep or his clammy skin, but after being plagued by the smile, Katsuki could barely look at himself. His reaction to the smile made him feel weak, like he couldn’t handle himself and that there was something wrong with him. It was just a smile after all. There was no reason for him to react to it like a nightmare, no reason for him to lose sleep over it or to feel overwhelmed by emotions at the thought of it.

Yet when he saw the smile and saw how the corners of his mouth were tugged a bit too tight, how his eyes were open a bit too wide, how the only shine in his eyes were the reflections of light on tears that refused to fall…

Katsuki cursed.

The icy cold shower did little to help distract him from the memory, nor did his morning run nor the steaming shower he took after. He wasn’t supposed to head into the agency today, so he didn’t have any planned beatdowns for today, and yes he probably shouldn’t be hoping for it, but part of him hoped for a sudden emergency villain so he could distract himself by focusing on beating some villain’s ass into next week.

A few hours later when his phone refused to stop buzzing, Katsuki wondered if throwing his phone across the room until it stopped would be close enough to beating villain ass to work. He reluctantly decided that talking to people so they’d leave him alone was probably less hassle to deal with than having to replace his phone and distribute his new number (even if it would give him an excuse to ghost some of these damn extras).

A few individual texts and a group text were the cause of the buzzing. As the group text’s new message count continued to rise, he figured it would be easier to respond to the individual texts first. Just in case he changed his mind about destroying the phone.

Four Eyes (Rocket Legs): Hello Bakugou, this is a reminder about the upcoming Class A reunion. As the head of the reunion committee, it is my duty to ensure an accurate headcount for the event, and I have yet to receive your response about your attendance. Please ensure to respond via the following link by this Friday at 11:59PM. [Class A 10 Year Reunion RSVP]

Four Eyes (Rocket Legs): In case you missed the previous messages regarding the reunion, the event is March 28th starting at 7PM at the Shinjuku Hotel in Musutafu. If you need to rent a room for the night or the weekend, please alert the Shinjuku Hotel staff that you are part of the Class A reunion party by next Wednesday for an event discount.

Katsuki frowned. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the possibility of being surrounded by all of his former classmates and even less at the idea of being socially obligated to spend the entire evening with them. At least when he met up with his friends elsewhere, he could always claim needing to leave early so he could make the last train or that work needed him to come in early the next day.

He closed out of the conversation, figuring he still had a few more days to decide if he really wanted to deal with his classmates for an entire evening.

Midoriya: Hey Katsugou! I was wondering if you’re going to go to the reunion? Tenya said the deadline to RSVP is coming soon and we haven’t heard from you, so I just thought I’d check in!

Katsuki: The fuck is Katsugou?

Midoriya: Oh sorry!! Typo!!

Midoriya: Anyway, are you coming?

Katsuki closed out of the conversation and moved on to the next one.

Shitty Hair: Katsuki! Are you coming to the reunion or not dude????

Katsuki: Fuck off.

Shitty Hair: Aww dude that’s no way to talk to your best friend, you know you love me!!

Katsuki: I’m blocking you.

He did not, in fact, block him. But he did close out of Eijirou’s texts.

Save for the newest text sent directly from Eijirou, all that was left was the backlog of texts in the group text. It had kept going off while he was reading the other conversations, so Katsuki figured it meant that everyone was either off for the day or on their lunch break.

Raccoon Eyes: guys!!!!! the reunion is COMING UPPPPPP!!!!

Raccoon Eyes: i cant wait to s

Raccoon Eyes: ee all of u guys again!!

Tape Face: lmao you saw us last week

Raccoon Eyes: yes

Raccoon Eyes: an eteRNITY ago

Raccoon Eyes: and like

Raccoon Eyes: kats left early so we didnt have everyone

Raccoon Eyes: so it doesnt count

Shitty Hair: Yeah Katsuki don’t leave early next time!!

Raccoon Eyes: we just have to hold him hostage next time

Raccoon Eyes: or like

Raccoon Eyes: AMBUSH him

Tape Face: i can always tape him up

Raccoon Eyes: YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES

Raccoon Eyes: tape him to the wall

Raccoon Eyes: and then like

Raccoon Eyes: steal his wallet

Raccoon Eyes: cant get on transit w no moneys

Raccoon Eyes: ei and han hold him down

Raccoon Eyes: i run to hide his wallet where he cant fi

Raccoon Eyes: nd it

Raccoon Eyes: probs keeps kats tapped to the wall all night

Raccoon Eyes: free up his arms so he can have a drink????

Tape Face: explosion palms dude

Raccoon Eyes: oh u right

Raccoon Eyes: he can just have a cup w like

Raccoon Eyes: a REALLY REALLY long straw

Raccoon Eyes: make sure u tape him up w his hands behind his back

Tape Face: you got it

Shitty Hair: He’s in this chat guys he’s going to see the plan

Raccoon Eyes: whatevs we can still totally blindside him

Raccoon Eyes: ANYWAYS

Raccoon Eyes: ure all going right?????

Tape Face: ya I rsvpd a while back

Shitty Hair: Yep!! Wouldn’t miss it for the world!

Raccoon Eyes: what about u kats

Raccoon Eyes: kats???

Raccoon Eyes: KAAAAAAAAAAAAATS

Raccoon Eyes: k

Raccoon Eyes: a

Shitty Hair: I’ll text him separately

Raccoon Eyes: t

Tape Face: he probably has this muted lmao

Raccoon Eyes: s

Raccoon Eyes: !!!!!!

Raccoon Eyes: how dare u ignore us

Raccoon Eyes: after everything weve done for u!!!!

Raccoon Eyes: thought we were ur ride or die hoes

Raccoon Eyes: dont tell me ur not going!!!!!

Raccoon Eyes: im so offended

Raccoon Eyes: how could u do this to us kats

Shitty Hair: Maybe he’s at work today?

Raccoon Eyes: boo

Raccoon Eyes: how dare he prioritize wo

Raccoon Eyes: rk over us

Raccoon Eyes: his best friends

Raccoon Eyes: the suns of his life

Raccoon Eyes: the bit of happiness in the cold

Raccoon Eyes: cold

Tape Face: coooooooooold

Raccoon Eyes: COOOOOOOOLD

Raccoon Eyes: thing he calls a heart

Shitty Hair: Lmao

Tape Face: its got a bit of warmth

Tape Face: most of it is his temper

Raccoon Eyes: boom boom POW

Raccoon Eyes: well while we wait for kats

Raccoon Eyes: help me pick some photos for the slideshow!!

Tape Face: are you doing only UA pics or some stuff since then

Tape Face: somehow iida managed to not specify lmao

Shitty Hair: The info email was like ten pages, how did he miss it

Tape Face: idk

Raccoon Eyes: ive got plenty for both!!

Raccoon Eyes: momo said pref UA pics but some new stuff is good too

Raccoon Eyes: show how far weve come n all that

Tape Face: oh cool let me get some opinions then too

Shitty Hair: Anyone have any pics of the camping trip from second year?

Raccoon Eyes: before or after todoroki and kats’ fight turned it into a icy hot springs

Shitty Hair: Both lmao but probably before it went to hell

Raccoon Eyes: image.png

Raccoon Eyes: ofc ive got us chillin in the springs

Raccoon Eyes: well most of us

Raccoon Eyes: kats u never get in the water w us :C

Raccoon Eyes: lets go to the beach next time!!

Tape Face: hed prob boil the water w you in it if you dragged him in lmao

Tape Face: spicy acid time

Raccoon Eyes: id like to see him TRY

Shitty Hair: Don’t tempt him lmao

Raccoon Eyes: image.png

Raccoon Eyes: i got like a shit ton more

Raccoon Eyes: should i send some of THE FIGHT

Shitty Hair: Maybe not

Tape Face: yes

Tape Face: well

Tape Face: depends on how many pissed off katsuki pics youre putting in lmao

Raccoon Eyes: OH

Raccoon Eyes: OHHHH

Raccoon Eyes: OHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Tape Face: ?

Raccoon Eyes: dude

Raccoon Eyes: do u have the POMERANIAN pic

Tape Face: o shit

Tape Face: image.png

Shitty Hair: I still think Katsuki should’ve taken that pup home

Shitty Hair: They’re matching!

Tape Face: image.png

Tape Face: i also have this one

Tape Face: when she tried to bite his nose off lmao

Raccoon Eyes: kats couldve named her king explosion murder

Raccoon Eyes: or just murder

Raccoon Eyes: p sure she wouldve tried to murder kats at least o

Raccoon Eyes: nce

Tape Face: lmao she basically tried when he found her

Shitty Hair: Maybe it’s for the best that he didn’t keep the pup

Tape Face: look what i found

Tape Face: image.png

Raccoon Eyes: AWWWW YES

Raccoon Eyes: LOOK AT USSSSS

Raccoon Eyes: we look FABBBB

Shitty Hair: Is that from the dance?

Tape Face: ye

Raccoon Eyes: guys what if we recreate that pic at the reunion

Raccoon Eyes: the fits?

Raccoon Eyes: immaculate

Raccoon Eyes: the pose?

Raccoon Eyes: perfection

Tape Face: hotel?

Tape Face: trivago

Shitty Hair: I’m down for recreating some pics!

Raccoon Eyes: yessssss

Raccoon Eyes: u have no choice either kats u gotta do it

Raccoon Eyes: wherever u are

Shitty Hair: Oh he replied!!

Raccoon Eyes: SWEET

Raccoon Eyes: what he say

Shitty Hair: He said fuck off

Tape Face: as expected

Shitty Hair: Lmao he threatened to block me again

Tape Face: thought he said he was blocking you last week

Shitty Hair: Yea exactly

Raccoon Eyes: HOW RUDE

Raccoon Eyes: as punishment for not paying attention to us

Raccoon Eyes: im gonna send this

Raccoon Eyes: image.png

Tape Face: LMAO whend you make that

Shitty Hair: Is that Katsuki with a cat face and ears

Shitty Hair: Dude I don’t know if he’s going to kill you for that or for the pink hair first lmao

Raccoon Eyes: lmao made it just now

Raccoon Eyes: well MAYBE if he ANSWERED us

Katsuki: Delete it.

Tape Face: O SHIT

Tape Face: you summoned him

Raccoon Eyes: NO I WILL NOT

Katsuki: Delete it Raccoon Eyes or else I’m coming for you.

Tape Face: are you coming for the left shoes and shittin in them

Raccoon Eyes: NOOOOOOO not my shoes!!!!!!!!

Tape Face: its just the left shoes tho

Raccoon Eyes: BUT THATS MY FAVE SIDE

Katsuki: What the fuck are you two going on about?

Raccoon Eyes: DONT COME FOR M

Raccoon Eyes: Y LEFT SHOES KATS IM SORRY

Katsuki: I’m not coming for your fucking left shoes. Or any of your shoes.

Katsuki: I will be coming for you if you don’t delete that picture, though.

Raccoon Eyes: FORGIVENESS

Raccoon Eyes: I BEG

Raccoon Eyes: PLSSSSS

Katsuki: Delete the picture.

Raccoon Eyes: ugh fiiiiiiiiiine

Raccoon Eyes: its deleted

Raccoon Eyes: i wont send it to momo for the slide show

Katsuki: Good.

Raccoon Eyes: IF U COME TO THE REUNION

Katsuki: Fuck off.

Shitty Hair: C’mon Katsuki!! It’ll be fun!!

Tape Face: ya it wouldnt do if we didnt have our exploding star

Raccoon Eyes: ill send momo WORSE if u dont come

Raccoon Eyes: nd u wont know WHAT til AFTER

Raccoon Eyes: so PLSSSSSSSSSS

Raccoon Eyes: PRETTY PLSSSSSSS

Raccoon Eyes: PLS COME TO THE REUNION

Raccoon Eyes: ill spam u a lot worse if u dont show us proof of rsvp

Raccoon Eyes: pls kaaaaaaaaats

Raccoon Eyes: kaaaaaaaaats

Raccoon Eyes: k

Raccoon Eyes: a

Katsuki: Ugh fucking fine, I’ll do the RSVP now then.

Raccoon Eyes: t

Raccoon Eyes: YAY

Four Eyes (Rocket Legs): Good afternoon, Bakugou! I just wanted to confirm with you that I have received your RSVP for the Class A reunion. As a reminder, if you need to rent a room for the night or the weekend, please alert the Shinjuku Hotel staff that you are part of the Class A reunion party by next Wednesday for an event discount.

Katsuki: image.png

Katsuki: Four Eyes is watching the RSVP form like a fucking hawk apparently.

Raccoon Eyes: YAAAAAY URE RSVPD!!!

Shitty Hair: You know him, always dedicated to his work

Tape Face: sweet

Raccoon Eyes: are u guys getting rooms

Tape Face: yea musutafus too far for a round trip

Tape Face: esp since itll prob end late

Shitty Hair: I got one for the weekend!

Tape Face: wbu mina

Raccoon Eyes: booked a room already!!

Raccoon Eyes: kaaaaats wbu

Raccoon Eyes: u should

Raccoon Eyes: we could have a brunch or lunch or s/t thats just us

Raccoon Eyes: plsssssss kats

Katsuki: I’ll think about it.

Tape Face: better than a no lmao

Shitty Hair: If they run out of space or if you decide last second, you can room with me dude

Raccoon Eyes: awww why not a yes

Katsuki: I haven’t asked the other Four Eyes for the time off yet.

Tape Face: is this four eyes no4 or no15

Raccoon Eyes: four eyes no69

Raccoon Eyes: no wait

Raccoon Eyes: no420

Tape Face: haha blaze it

Raccoon Eyes: BLAZE IT

Shitty Hair: It’s number 7

Katsuki: Fuck you, I don’t have that many Four Eyes saved in my phone.

Shitty Hair: I’d be surprised if you had 420 contacts period dude

Raccoon Eyes: would b hilarious tho

Katsuki: Yes, it’s Four Eyes number 7.

Shitty Hair: I was right!!

Katsuki: Why would I ask any of the other Four Eyes for time off? They’re not my fucking bosses.

Tape Face: dunno

Raccoon Eyes: idk maybe ure secretly dating one a

Raccoon Eyes: nd have to confirm that its ok

Raccoon Eyes: ARE U SECRETLY DATING A FOUR EYES

Raccoon Eyes: U HAVE TO TELL US IF U ARE

Raccoon Eyes: URE LEGALLY OBLIGATED

Tape Face: o shit

Tape Face: scandalous

Katsuki: Shut the fuck up, I’m not dating anyone, secret or not.

Raccoon Eyes: thats what they all say

Katsuki: Whatever. I’m not dating anyone.

Raccoon Eyes: kats n four eyes no420 sittin in a tree

Raccoon Eyes: k

Raccoon Eyes: i

Raccoon Eyes: s

Raccoon Eyes: i

Katsuki: I’ll blow up all of your left shoes when you’re not home.

Raccoon Eyes: n

Raccoon Eyes: NO

Raccoon Eyes: IM STOPPING DONT DO IT

Shitty Hair: Hey what do you guys think of this photo

Shitty Hair: image.png

Tape Face: dude yes

Raccoon Eyes: AWWWW OUR FIRST BILLBOARDS AS PROS

Katsuki: Do we really need to send them pictures? It’s not like we fucking forgot this stuff already.

Tape Face: you can be a killjoy if you want lmao

Tape Face: im sure mina will send more than enough to cover for you

Raccoon Eyes: U BETCHA

Raccoon Eyes: image.png

Tape Face: lmao why do you have a pic of katsuki throwing ei

Shitty Hair: I still can’t believe you did that bro

Shitty Hair: WITHOUT WARNING TOO

Katsuki: I gave you plenty of fucking warning.

Shitty Hair: Saying “I’m throwing you” AS YOU’RE THROWING ME is NOT PLENTY OF WARNING DUDE

Raccoon Eyes: im always ready to document golden moments

Katsuki: Shut the fuck up. We won the training exercise so what’s it fucking matter?

Shitty Hair: YOU THREW ME!!

Katsuki: Tape Face caught you before you could get hurt.

Shitty Hair: YOU /THREW/ ME!!!!!!

Tape Face: barely caught

Katsuki: Whatever.

Raccoon Eyes: im still impressed by how eASY u made that look

Katsuki: What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?

Raccoon Eyes: o look conveniently timed distraction photo spam

Katsuki sighed as he continued the conversation, commenting here and there on the photos his friends sent for judgement. In retrospect, he probably should have tried to talk to Shion first, since there was a chance she would have denied the time off for the reunion. Although, knowing her, she would have accepted just to force Katsuki into socializing. He opened up a new text message, figuring that if Shion did decide to deny the time off, he would at least have a screenshot to send to his friends explaining the sudden change in plans.

Katsuki: I need March 28th and 29th off.

Four Eyes (Shitty Shion): Do my eyes deceive me? The great Katsuki Bakugou, asking for time off?

Four Eyes (Shitty Shion): I’m amazed! Usually I have to ask you to take the day off!

Four Eyes (Shitty Shion): Nay, not ask, but force!

Katsuki: Are you going to give it to me or not?

Four Eyes (Shitty Shion): Depends! What do you need the time off for?

Katsuki: Class reunion.

Four Eyes (Shitty Shion): Oh those are fun!

Four Eyes (Shitty Shion): Fill out the proper time off paperwork and have it on my desk by Monday. I’ll approve the time off.

Four Eyes (Shitty Shion): Just keep your phone on you in case we need you to come in for an emergency, but I’ll try not to ruin your reunion with work.

Katsuki: Thanks.

Well, so much for an easy way out.

Katsuki pinched the bridge of his nose when he noticed that his phone had already accumulated another thirty texts in the past few minutes, no doubt primarily from Mina. He scrolled through the backlog, sending a few mostly empty threats when he saw photos he did not want projected for the entire class to see, freezing when his gaze met a pair of familiar amber eyes.

Shit.

In his scramble to close out of the photo, to escape the genuine smile that somehow was more haunting than the one in his dreams, he left the group text completely. He briefly thanked his past self; he’d impulse or rage quit the group text plenty of times before that this wasn’t unusual behavior. If he was lucky, his friends wouldn’t have noticed the timing of his departure and would assume he was just fed up with the notifications or the conversation.

Shitty Hair: You okay, Katsuki?

A weak laugh escaped Katsuki’s lips as he read the newest notification. Of course Eijirou noticed.

Katsuki: I’m fine.

Shitty Hair: Okay

Shitty Hair: We don’t have to talk about it

Shitty Hair: But if you want to, I’m here dude

Shitty Hair: I’ll tell the others that you left so your phone would shut up and not to add you back yet

Katsuki: Thanks. Really.

Shitty Hair: No problem dude

Katsuki put his phone down, silently praying for the smile to leave him alone.

When he finally laid down for bed that night, he repeated the short prayer, for a peaceful night’s rest free of the smile, of the hurt, of the pain, of the guilt.

But as always, the smile came.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #kaminari denki #bakukami #kamibaku #katsuki bakugou #denki kaminari #bnha fanfic #mha fanfic #story #from the creator

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rockhoochie · 4 years

Text

Title: Anything and Everything

Link: On AO3

Square Filled: Tongue Fucking

Pairing: Dean Winchester/YN

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Fingering, Oral Sex (M/F), Tongue Fucking, Squirting, Unprotected Sex (seriously, just be safe), Marijuana, mention of prescription narcotic.

WC: 8,290

Created For @spnkinkbingo

A/N: Well...this escalated quickly! The story is told in alternating POV between Dean and Reader - Reader’s is regular text, Dean’s is italicized. I debated on splitting this into parts due to the word length, but...well, I’m impatient, and I’m really excited to share this with all of you! Plus, I think it flows better if it’s read all in one sitting 😉

This fic is dedicated to @fangirlxwritesx67 - remember that drabble prompt you sent me like, two months ago, that was Dean and reader laying on a comfortable floor, listening to music, and he starts playing with her hair, and they have a first kiss? Well, here’s your drabble 😄 Thank you for the inspiration!

And thank you everyone for reading! Drop me a line, let me know what you think - I love hearing from you ❤ ~Sarah

(’Lay Lady Lay’ music and lyrics © Bob Dylan, 1969)

I set a kettle on the stove to boil.

Thank god Donna has this place, and thank god that we were so close. We’ve been here for days now, nursing our wounds: Sam had a bruised rib and a nasty gash on his torso. Dean had a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. I'd been flung against a wall - I don’t remember much because I'd been knocked out hard, unconscious for hours - but by some miracle managed to come out of it with only a few ugly bruises and a migraine. Not our worst injuries by a longshot, but we’d figured since we had a home base, we may as well take advantage of it. We’d packed up yesterday, planning on heading out this morning, but an incoming snowstorm kept us from venturing out - it was half a day's drive, and even Dean couldn’t deny that the Impala doesn’t handle best on icy roads.

I like it here. It’s so quiet. And dark. No sirens or traffic, no various and questionable motel noises. No glare of city lights marring the night sky. The only light outside is coming from the moon, the only sounds are the ones I make. I look out the window, wondering when the storm will move in - the moon is full, its brightness gleaming off acres of driven snow that glints and glimmers against an indigo sky. Normally, a stillness like this is a warning, a silence this pure a screaming harbinger - but I don’t feel any threat here. No forebodings, no gut-nettling intuitions.

It’s peaceful. I’m peaceful. If I ever leave this life behind me, if I’m lucky enough to dodge all the bullets and claws and teeth and blades, I’ll settle somewhere up here, find a small house on a lake that’s tucked away from the rest of the world. He’d love that. And we could just be, live out our days and years together, work stupid pedestrian jobs to pay stupid everyday bills. I’ll plant a garden and he can restore classic cars while we raise a family and just...live...

The kettle sings and hisses, and outside, snow begins to fall in fat, feathery clusters. I pour the boiling water into a handmade, slightly lopsided clay mug that proudly proclaims “I Love Auntie Donna” in a childish script, dip and drown my tea bag, and shuffle back to my spot in the living room - my little nest in a gorgeous, hand-crafted rocking chair next to the fireplace. Donna told me her grandfather had made it, and every time I look at it, it astounds me that another human being created something so beautiful with his bare hands. Every nitch, nock, and spindle carefully considered and meticulously carved. Some of the stain has faded, and patches of lacquer have dulled, but that only adds to its beauty - you can tell this chair was loved.

The fire I’d built earlier is down to embers. I sit and stare into the blazing coals, sipping chamomile and scrying for answers to questions I don’t know. The room is warm, but I need something over my shoulders, need the weight of something wrapped around me. There’s a flannel draped over the back of the rocking chair...one of Dean’s flannels. And it’s my favorite of his, the dark red one that brings out his freckles and the deep jade of his eyes. I take it and slip my arms through the sleeves. It smells like him...like whiskey and wintergreen, leather and cotton, copper and cordite...

I catch myself before I start to fall too far. I need to pack up these thoughts and put them away where they belong before they start making me hopeful again.

I used to let myself get lost in them, let myself wander through giddy daydreams and float among sultry fantasies...I’d close my eyes at night and pretend Dean was by my side, just an arms reach away. I’d imagine it was his fingers pumping inside of me instead of mine, hear his voice in my head as I made myself come. Or I’d simply think about spending a day with him - walking through a park in autumn, stargazing on a summer night, cuddling and kissing on a rainy spring day. But after a while, when I’d accidentally found myself in love with him, I’d put all those dreams on the shelf; I'd only take them down when I was at my lowest and loneliest, grasping for a reason to keep going. There were a few times I’d thought about telling him, making a move...but Dean Winchester doesn’t need another complication. None of us do.

~*~

The shitty thing about being used to four hours of sleep is that when I actually get the chance for more, my brain doesn’t get on board. I came up here a couple of hours ago and I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed. Just keep staring at the ceiling and thinking about things I shouldn’t...

I love this place. It’s cold outside and the wind’s howlin’, but it’s damn cozy in here. If Hell ever gets a blast of Minnesota weather - and I can pack it in, leave the life - I’m getting a place like this. Hell, I’d build it myself, make it just the way we want it. We could move out here, where it’s almost backcountry, leave all the bad times behind us. It’s gonna be on a lake though - I’ll get a boat and go fishing all the time, teach our kids all the tricks to hooking the big ones...

Jesus, knock it off, Winchester. Like she’d let you screw up her life more than you already have.

YN's moving around downstairs. I should see what she’s up to, see if she’s feelin’ okay or wants any company...nah, I should just leave her alone. She got her bell rung bad the other day and it scared the shit outta me...I kinda lost it and yelled at her like a total asshole. I don’t get why I do that. Gun to my head, I guess it’s cause it seems simpler that way - rather piss her off and keep her from getting too close, instead of admitting out loud how I feel about her and watch her run for the hills.

She was in and out of it for almost two days, and I’d stayed with her as much as I could, at least till Sam would bark at me to eat or sleep. She’d used herself as bait - again- and I fucking hate it when she puts herself in the line of fire like that. I can’t stand it when she gets hurt, and this last time was...pretty bad. But she’s stubborn as hell, can’t be talked out of anything she’s already set her mind to. Actually thought she was gonna punch me when I got in her face, but I escaped with only a “fuck off, Dean”.

And I suppose those are some of the reasons my dumb ass went and fell ass over tea kettle for her - her grit and her style, the way she can dish it as good she takes it, how she handles either a gun or a blade with this almost unnatural grace... one day, I watched her make salt rounds for an hour and it was one of the most spectacular things I’d ever seen - she was in this total zone, her forehead creased in concentration, and lips mouthing the words to a song I can't hear, growling out the cutest “fuck” or “son of a bitch” if she messed up.

She’s the best part of my day - whether it’s seein’ her all cranky and bleary-eyed in the morning, passed out over a pile of books in the library, or bent over a pool table while she hustles townies - I can’t think of a better sight. And her laugh is goddamn music to ears. Her eyes, her smile...her anything and everything keeps me going. I can be two seconds away from checkin’ out, but one look at her reminds me that it's all worth it, worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears.

Christ, just thinking about her like this is making my dick twitch. Doesn’t help that she laid in this bed the last few days because I can still smell her. Her perfume or soap or whatever she uses is fucking delicious, a mix of spice and spring flowers and brown sugar that sticks to her skin and practically makes my mouth water, makes me wanna taste her…

Fuck, now I’m hard. I think about jerking off for a minute, but instead I think about that time Cas showed up in my car naked and covered with bees and swing my legs off the bed. No sense in just layin’ here, thinkin’ about things that’ll never happen. I grab my duffel and pull out my flask (not much left in there, maybe two or three shots) and some clothes. Gonna check out the room down the hall that’s got one of those old school record players. Maybe some good tunes will calm me down, get my mind off things. Off of her. I turn to leave but then I remember- there’s a little something in my bag I’ve been hangin' on to. I dig through all my crap and find it in the inside pocket. Awesome. Screw consciousness, I’m gettin’ high.

~*~

I hear footfalls against the ceiling - one of them’s awake. It could be Sam, but I know it’s Dean - I know his stride, his tread. And I also know Sam conceded to the pain and downed an extra dose of Percocet, so he’s all but dead to the world for the next six hours.

We all have problems sleeping, each have our lion’s share of blood-and- gore-laden nightmares, but Dean’s always seem worse. They take a bigger toll on him. He wakes up screaming more often, drenched in a cold sweat with his sheets flung from the bed. Sometimes I hear him shouting in the middle of the night and it breaks my fucking heart.

Maybe I’ll go see if he’s alright, if there’s anything I can do for him... I hope he’s not still pissed at me for what happened on the hunt. Sam told me it was just because I’d scared him, because he cares about me, that it’s just easier for Dean to blow up instead of break down. But dammit I wish he’d open up, just a little. There were a couple of nights he and I had spent just hanging out together, nights where whiskey was flowing and secrets were shared...but right when it seemed like he was going to let me in on what was really going on in his head, he’d stopped himself, drained his glass, and said goodnight.

I know what he’s been through. Or rather, I know of what he's been through. It would be sacrilege for me to even try to begin to empathize. I know about things he’s done, his devils and deeds that are unforgivable in most circles but necessary in ours.

Dean is a good man. Everything he’s done has been a labor of love, a sacrifice. I know he doubts himself constantly and I know he hurts, vehemently and deeply. But if he’d just let me in, if I could love him the way he deserves, I’d do anything and everything I could to take all that pain and somehow dull it. Sometimes I can actually get a smile out of him and it’s one of the most marvelous things I’ve ever seen - when the corners of his green eyes crinkle and his teeth peek out from behind those ridiculously perfect lips...god, it’s beautiful. He is beautiful, inside and out and I wish he could see that.

Now I’m wide awake. My tea’s gone cold, and I’ve spent too much time wallowing in these thoughts that shouldn’t be wallowed in, and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. I glance out a window and watch the now steadily falling snow, listen to the wind whip and whistle through the frigid night air. Sitting here in the dark alone with all of these thoughts has become too lonely. There’s a room upstairs, a little den with a couple of chairs and one of those huge console record players...I’ll grab that book I’ve been meaning to read and hang out in there, let some music fill the quiet and the story busy my brain.

I take my mug to the kitchen, place it in the sink, and pull Dean’s flannel around me tighter. Hopefully, he won’t mind if I borrow it for the night. This way, I can be close to him without ruining things.

Music echoes down the staircase and I recognize the tune as I get closer to its source. Bob Dylan. Nashville Skyline, I think. Dim, golden light beckons me to follow and leads me to a doorway. I look down and find him lying on the floor, with his ankles crossed, and one arm bent behind his head, blowing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

“Hey,” I whisper, and he turns his face toward me, looking up at me with mellow eyes and an easygoing smile.

“Hey yourself. Can’t sleep?”

I shake my head. “Thought I’d come in here and check out Donna’s music collection. But I see you had the same idea, so -”

“So? Come on in, stay awhile.” He pats the floor beside him, then holds up the joint fastened between his fingers. “It’d be a lot cooler if you did.”

I should really go, leave him to his own devices, avoid torturing myself. But before reason has any chance to intervene, I find myself lying next to him. He’s more of a drug to me than the smoke I’m sucking through my lips. I want to stay away, I should stay away, but I can’t fucking help myself. So like a good little junkie I give in, tell myself this is no big deal, that I can go back to not thinking about him tomorrow.

~*~

I’m so glad she decided to stay.

I don’t know if it’s the weed or the cold, dark night or what it is, but when I saw her standing there, all I wanted was to just have her near me. Even if all I get to do is hear her voice or just feel her presence next to me...well, I’ll take it. It’s not like this anything new, we’ve hung out like this plenty of times...though it’s times like this when I get so comfortable around her, that I really gotta reign it in and make sure I keep my damn mouth shut. And it never seems to get easier - like right now. She’s humming along to the music, making up her own words here and there and playing air guitar and it’s friggin’ adorable. She really is one in a million and if things were different, I’d hold on to her and never let go.

Somethin’ Sam said a while back pops into my head - somethin’ about finding someone who knows the life - and for a second I think maybe things don’t need to be different. Maybe we could make it work. But then I remember I’m toxic. Even for a hunter I drink too much, have too many fucked up thoughts, done way too many fucked up things. No, she deserves someone good, someone better than me. I can’t even believe she’s stuck around for this long. Sometimes I just look at her and wanna scream, “run”, before she gets hurt. I’ve accepted that I’ll never get the happily ever after but she shouldn’t. She can still get out, have a real life, meet someone who’ll give her everything and make her happy. Never in my life will I be able to give that to anyone - it just ain’t in the cards for me.

Then she looks at me, passes me the joint with this sweet smile, and all those thoughts just fade away. And I wonder - like I wonder almost every night - how her lips would feel against mine.

Sam keeps tellin’ me that I’m an idiot, that she really likes me, that I should go for it. And for a minute, I actually think about it, cause the way she’s lookin’ at me right now is downright incredible - she actually looks happy to be here, with me.

Is she?

Truth is I'm selfish. And a bit of a coward. I'm too afraid to love anyone because I'm too afraid to lose them. Everyone I've ever lost took a piece of me with them and I ain't got much left. If anything ever happened to YN, I’d be done. She’d take the last of me.

I’m feelin’ a little goofy. Not stoned or anything, but definitely running out of fucks to give. Then I glance at her and notice she’s wiggling out of her button-down.. .my button-down. She rolls it up, tucks it beneath her head, and stretches back out on the floor. Her tank top is creeping up over her stomach a little bit, and it’s stretched tight over her tits and she’s got nothin’ on underneath…

I swallow hard and bite down on my lip cause I’m this close to just flat-out telling her I love her.

~*~

Part of me wants to tell Donna she desperately needs to redecorate this room...but the other, the part of me that's stretched out on the floor, listening to classic 33s and getting high with Dean, is perfectly content with the old-school kitsch. The shag carpeting we’re laying on is surprisingly comfortable; The color (what is this, ocher? Chartreuse?) - shouldn’t be allowed to exist, but the long polyester threads sprawling beneath us are soothing in a way. The light is low, flickering from two vintage oil lamps that stand on each end of the console, and casts shadows beneath its warm glow.

Dean looks like he’s about to say something, but the last song has ended and skipped into a static scratch. He hoists himself up to flip the record, and I perch on my elbows and just...admire him. He’s different here. I’ve seen him lounge around the bunker during downtime but tonight he actually seems powered-down, carefree. There's something almost magical about what the calm does to him, how it lifts the weight he carries. His shoulders are relaxed, his movements languid, unhurried and uncalculated, eyes bright and serene. And he looks so fucking good, wearing a well-worn and well-fitting Zeppelin t-shirt that he must've had since before he’d built up his muscle. Softened and faded jeans cover his bowed legs and hang low on his hips, and I don’t think he’s got anything on underneath because I get a glimpse at the cut of his abs and...

I wish I could tell him how amazing he is, how much he makes me smile, how much I love him; I wish I could show him, hold him, kiss him and just love him with everything I have...

The music starts back up and oh my god… he’s dancing. It’s really more of a slow-motion Elvis maneuver, but it’s the closest thing to dancing I’ve ever seen Dean do. Every tick of his hips pulls the fabric of his jeans perfectly across his ass, and I shouldn't be thinking about him this way but he’s just so mesmerizing…

And then he turns and faces me with his best impression of his best Bob Dylan.

Lay lady lay,

Lay across my big brass bed

Lay lady lay,

Lay across my big brass bed...

I throw my head back and laugh, not because he’s being ridiculous, but because he’s being so goddamn perfect. And the joy I thought I’d lost the day I cocked my first shotgun is bubbling up and making me giddy. Or it’s him. Or it could just be the pot. This is a side of him that no one gets to see, not even his brother. I can give him this, a place to let go of it all and just be Dean Winchester for a little while. He’s easy here, content, and he actually seems happy that I decided to stay.

Is he?

He claims his spot beside me again, settling in just a little closer. He's still singing to me and I'm still giggling…

Whatever colors you have in your mind

I show them to you and you see them shine

Lay lady lay

Lay across my big brass bed

Somehow his hand found mine, and he's tracing my knuckles with one calloused fingertip. I take it in mine and glance down at the connection, marveling at how small my hand is in his but how perfectly it fits. His hand is so gentle, warm and solid...it’s hard to believe how often his palm has bled, how many triggers his fingers have pulled, how many bones his fist has shattered.

He shifts, rolls to his side, and gazes down at me while he keeps up his serenade.

Stay lady stay

Stay with your man a while

Until the break of day

Let me see you make him smile

I grin as he brushes my hair from my face, tucks a few strands behind my ear, winds a section around his fingers. Then I see something in his face that’s never been there before - a shade of color reflecting from his eyes that's deep and rich and vibrant…

His clothes are dirty but his, his hands are clean

And you are the best thing that he's ever seen

Stay lady stay

Stay with your man a while

The way he's muttering the lyrics...it’s so sincere, like he means every single word. The warmth of his body is just out of my reach, and the low timbre of his voice begins to resonate through my veins, nestling into a locked corner of my soul.

Why wait any longer for the world to begin

You can have your cake and eat it too

Why wait any longer for the one you love

When he's standing in front of you

He’s still playing with my hair, pushing any stray strands from my face…my eyes flutter closed and his touch becomes something warmer, softer. Delicate, intentional kisses pepper my cheekbones, my temples, my forehead...

Lay lady lay

Lay across my big brass bed

Stay lady stay

Stay while the night is still ahead

I feel his thumb and forefinger catch and tilt my chin, and I open my eyes. He’s so close now, close enough that if I rolled on my side I’d roll into him, that if I lifted my head just an inch...

I long to see you in the morning light

I long to reach for you in the night

Stay lady stay

Stay while the night is still ahead

The silent formation of the last few lyrics are the first thing I feel and then his lips are fully on mine, barely grasped between his and I've never felt something so tender and genuine carry itself with so much force. He's cradling my cheek and his kiss feels tentative, uncertain - but at the same time teeming with need, as though he’s waiting for my approval while praying with everything he’s got that I’ll grant it. So I lean into him, slide my fingers along the short hairs on the back of his neck, and pull him closer.

~*~

Maybe it was the weed, the music, the way the light reflected off her… whatever it was, it just took over. She looked too soft and too damn perfect, layin’ there and smiling that smile. And I thought about the other day when she was lying unconscious on that blood-stained, concrete floor, and the way my guts twisted at the thought of losing her…

I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I couldn't go one more night without telling her exactly how much she means to me. And it was a cheesy way to do it, singing to her like that, but Bob knew all the right things to say.

I actually can't even believe she's kissing me right now, that she pulled me close and wrapped her arms around me. Part of me thinks she's nuts - she's gotta know I got nothing to offer her, that she deserves so much better- better than me, better than this life. I can’t promise her anything - can’t promise a future or comfort... but if she lets me, I can promise to love her, to kiss her with everything I’ve got every chance I get, to hold her close and protect her... even if it’s just for tonight.

She makes a little sound and arches her body into mine. I don’t know how far this is gonna go, but I’ll take my time getting there. This may just be a fluke, a one-time thing. Or maybe it’s not, maybe I’m the luckiest bastard on the fucking planet...either way, I want to savor every second.

I keep the kisses slow, open-mouthed and gentle. But then I feel her tongue slide along my lower lip and I can’t help but slip mine against hers. This feels so good, just kissing her like this, tasting her and feeling her beneath me. She’s running her fingers through my hair, rolling her hips every now and then, sliding her hand down my side and across my back. I kiss her harder, deeper. She’s moving more, breathing faster, making these quiet little whimpers. I break away and look at her, smoothing some of her hair away from her beautiful face. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are half-closed and right at this moment she could ask me to shoot the moon and I’d kill it dead.

Her hand brushes my cheek and she pushes into me, silently begging me to keep going.

“You sure?” I whisper in her ear, kissing the space just behind it.

She nods and mutters “please,” and I move my lips down her neck. Her body trembles when I land on the spot where her neck curves into her shoulder - I give her skin there a little nip and she gasps... fuck, I need to hear that sound over and over. I’m gonna map her entire body, figure out just the right way to touch her. Run my hands over every point, plane and curve, find every spot that makes her moan and quiver and sigh. I wanna drown, lose myself in her. I want her to know that I know how special she is, that I get how lucky I am to be with her tonight, that I understand what she’s giving me. I kneel between her legs, take hold of her wrists, and slowly push her arms above her head.

I need to see and feel and taste every single inch of her and I’m not gonna be quick about it.

~*~

First kisses are usually awkward. Heads bump, teeth collide, hands float and fumble while they try to find a comfortable place to land.

So I don’t know if it’s dumb luck, or just that I’ve practiced this so many times in my mind, but we find a rhythm instantly and we fit, like we’ve known all along exactly how to kiss each other. It’s so perfect that I almost laugh out loud, dumbfounded that I ever thought that we shouldn’t do this. Our kiss is absolute, passionate and all-consuming, and sending every neuron in my brain firing into a tailspin.

I never want to stop kissing him.

My arms are above my head and he's teasing me, softly kneading my breasts over my top, flicking at the stiff peaks of my nipples. I lower my hands to pull at our shirts, to let him know I need to feel his touch on my bare skin, but he gently curls his fingers around my wrists again and guides them back up.

"Let me," he murmurs, sliding his palm down my breastbone, over my stomach and finally beneath my top. “Just... let me…”

Right as he cups my breast and traps my nipple between his fingers he’s kissing me again, swallowing every sound he’s pulling from me. I melt into him, into his kiss, into his touch. He pushes my tank top over my head and then his lips are on my neck, my collarbone, my shoulders. My forearms and fingers are dotted with kisses, along with my hips and navel, and then he’s peeling off my leggings, never once taking his eyes off of me. I’m completely bare beneath him and he’s biting his lower lip, running his hands from each of my ankles to my calves, my knees, my thighs...he looks as though he can’t decide if he wants to ravish me or revere me.

He settles for a smooth, easy assault, touching and kissing me everywhere, lingering whenever I cry out or sigh. I’ve never felt like this, never felt so...worshipped. His fingers and lips glide along my body as though I’m a delicate thing - carefully, thoroughly, and completely. My skin feels taut, chilled and tingling, but my blood is pumping hot and fast beneath. And when his tongue swirls around my nipple, and he takes it between his teeth, I swear to god I’d come right now if he told me to.

I know I’m wet, I can feel it, hot and dripping and my cunt is clenching, clit throbbing with a deep, insistent ache that almost hurts. Dean is everywhere, exploring and marking and claiming, until I hear myself begging, pleading...I need to feel him inside of me. I need him to unravel me, to make me come undone.

~*~

The way she looks right now is so goddamn glorious, she doesn’t seem real. She’s ruddy and glowing, twisting beneath me, chanting my name and begging with kiss-swollen lips. I let my hand slide between her legs, run a finger between her folds and christ - she is so fucking wet. She lifts her knees and spreads wide open for me and I dip just the tip of one finger inside. She ruts forward and I push two fingers all the way into her tight, hot pussy and fucking hell, she feels smoother than silk. I keep it slow, steady, loving the way her eyes roll back when I flick my thumb over her clit, and the way her tongue darts between her parted lips as I twist my fingers inside her cunt, searching for that spot...

Her eyes go wide when I find it, and her neck arches back and her hands fist the carpet. She’s quietly moaning and cursing and pushing herself down, fucking herself on my fingers. I catch her scent and some animal urge takes over me; I pull my fingers from her, bring them to my mouth and suck them clean. She's like fucking nectar and I’ve never tasted anything so good and all I want is more…

I pull my shirt over my head, push my jeans off, press her thighs as far open as she can spread them - god, her pussy is perfect, so pink and slick - and take a long, slow taste. She moans, low and long, breathing out a desperate “fuck, yes…” as she cards her fingers through my hair. And I growl, I fucking growl like a goddamn dog, and drive my tongue into her dripping hole. She hooks one leg over my shoulder and tilts her hips and I grab on to her ass and hold her up. I lick her deep, thrusting and flicking and swirling my tongue, filling my mouth with the flavor of her, then I peer up at her and...My. Fucking. God, she’s a vision. She’s shaking, twitching and gasping when my nose bumps her clit...

I slip my tongue from her cunt, ease her down and spread her open with my fingers, lapping at her folds, her entrance, her clit. Then I take that sensitive little bud between my lips and suck and holy shit, the fucking sound she makes...I gotta make her come. I need to see it, feel it, hear it.

But first I drag my mouth up her body, stopping to nip at her neck before landing on her lips. She licks into my mouth instantly, sucks at my lower lip, pushes her tongue against mine and I can tell she’s about to lose her mind.

~*~

I'd been in more than one motel room next to Dean's. And I'd always rolled my eyes, convinced that whatever girl he'd brought back with him was just putting on a show, playing porn star with their over-the-top wailing.

They weren't screaming loud enough.

“Can you taste yourself, baby?” he purrs between kisses, "You taste how fuckin' delectable your pussy is? So hot and sweet...” and I moan into his mouth. He slips his fingers back inside and curls them, nudging my sweet spot. “Want you come, YN…wanna make you fall apart..."

I'm biting my lip to keep from crying out too loudly, stifling the urge to scream because the pleasure he's giving me is so complete and consuming. I swear he knows my body better than I do. He's found places on me and inside of me that feel like they've never been touched until tonight. I'd thought maybe I was hypersensitive, so eager and thrilled that this was finally happening, but no - everything he does is deliberate. He finds a spot and knows whether to bite or kiss, push or pull, grind or slide, when to do it all at once or not at all. Every touch, every stroke sparks my nerves and ignites my cells and I'm down to my last fragments of control. I am utterly at his mercy, reduced to a writhing, wanton mess as his fingers slide inside of me, hitting my g-spot with incredible marksmanship. Then his lips land on my clit again, and...oh God. Oh my fucking god…

It starts in my belly, a molten heat simmering in my core, wavering a scant wavelength away from a fever pitch. It’s hot and thrumming and growing in speed and intensity until it can't be contained anymore. It bolts through me, hot and hard like an electric current and I go rigid as I come, the torrents of bliss saturating every molecule of my body. And then Dean is up on his knees, three fingers deep in my sodden cunt, his other hand laying flat on my lower stomach and muttering "Come on baby,...let go…let go for me…" Either I'm still coming or I'm coming again, hard and completely, and a quiet pull snaps from someplace deep inside... I completely shatter, so stunned with the sensation that I open my mouth in a silent scream as my cum splashes against his hand.

~*~

I tuck back down between her legs and softly lap at the stray drops sticking to her thighs. I’m about to go crazy - I’m hungry, starving for her, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this fucking hard in my life.

I lay beside her, trace shapes on her collarbone, and watch her as she comes down - the way her tits rise and fall with every breath, the way her throat flexes when she swallows, the way the lamplight dances off her sweat-sheened skin. Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly opened, and her tongue sneaks out every now and then across her lips. Of all the ways I’ve ever seen YN, this has to be the absolute, bar-none best. She’s like a living statue or a painting, some kind of work of art. A goddamn masterpiece.

I don’t want to stop touching her. Right now, I don’t even think I could. She shudders and opens her eyes when I gently trace a wet finger along her cheek. Then she grabs my wrist, pulls my hand to her mouth, and wraps her lips around the fingers I used to fuck her. She sucks and licks, and all I can do is groan as my fingers slide along her tongue. I gotta distract myself or I’m gonna shoot off right now like a teenager…

I take my fingers back and move to hover over her, and catch her lips in mine again. Kissing her is so...it just feels right. Like hers are the only lips I ever need to kiss again. If this is all we do for the rest of the night - hell, for the rest of our lives, I’d be one hundred percent happy. But as we kiss, she starts to whimper, moan...and then I feel her fingertips skitter down my torso and brush against my cock. And I can’t help it, I grunt out a “fuck, YN” and chase her touch. She drags her thumb, then her palm against the tip of my dick, smears precome around my shaft then wraps me in her fingers. I bite my lip and rock into her fist while she strokes me, trying like hell not to lose it any time she gives the slightest squeeze. I can feel her breath on my face and I’m starting to fall into the rhythm, getting lost in her touch and the heat of her body beneath me…

Then in the flash of a second, she hooks a leg around my waist, shifts her weight and turns, and has me on my back. She's straddling me, and I watch her slick pussy drag along my cock while my hands slide up her thighs and grip her hips. My eyes wander, slowly, up her body, marveling at her shape and color and just the mere sight of her swaying over me. My eyes meet hers and then...I'm trapped. Hypnotized. Being here with this woman is like nothing I've ever seen or felt before, and there's some part of me that knows I'll never feel this way about anyone ever again.

~*~

My gaze meets his and I'm struck...with exactly what, I don't know. It's thrilling and terrifying at the same time but most of all it's certain; This is exactly where I'm meant to be, astride this beautiful man who’s lying beneath me, stripped of all his layers, and I can feel the moment he surrenders. His mind and his body, his control and his chaos, his pleasure and his pain, all together unfettered and unfurled.

Potent and fervent primal desire sets in and overtakes me; I want to claim him, feel his skin between my teeth, taste the salt of his sweat.

I shift to my knees, slot myself between his open legs and lean forward, pressing myself against the solid heat of his bare chest, and catch his lips in a quick but ravenous kiss. He tries to chase it but I pull away, letting one hand slide up his sternum, splaying my fingers over his throat. I fist his hard, dripping cock in my free hand and stroke. He breathes out my name with a curse and his head hits the floor as my mouth latches on to his neck.

Releasing my hold on him, my lips move from his neck to his collarbone, down and across his chest, following the blueprint of bruises, scratches, and scars until my nose brushes against the thatch of dark hair between his legs.

I flatten my tongue and lick his thick cock from base to tip, then take just the crown between my lips and gently suck. The taste of his precome fills my mouth and he moans and trembles, exhaling a long, deeply held breath as he laces his fingers in my hair. I take him all the way then, as far as I can, until I feel him hit the back of my throat. I hold him there and swallow, let him feel the soft flex around his shaft. I slide up and down slowly, stroking the inches that can’t slide down my throat with one hand, and cup his balls in the other. He whimpers, high-pitched and desperate, and the mere sound of that sends drops of arousal trickling down my thighs while my cunt clenches and quivers. His grip on my head tightens and I keep steady, caressing and taking him deep, and let the tip of one finger press against his perineum.

His body tenses and I peer up at him - the muscles of his abs are twitching, his neck is arched back, the tendons there strained and taut, jaw clenched, and teeth bared...he’s holding back, trying not to come. He hisses out a breath and gently tugs my hair, urging me to let him slip from my mouth. “Fuck, YN”, he breathes, and I walk my hands alongside of him, gliding my body against his and brush his lips with a gossamer kiss.

We both breathe hard, panting, fingers tangling in each other’s hair, hips rolling, hearts racing. His hard, thick length is sliding against the soaked lips of my pussy, the head of his cock nudging my throbbing clit. I look into the dark forest of his eyes, he places his hand on my cheek and suddenly there’s a surge - a swift and commanding energy that surrounds us, tangible and unconditional.

Our gaze locks as I raise my hips. He grips his cock, lines up at my entrance, and I sink down slowly, relishing every inch that stretches me open, my moan echoing his until I’m completely filled with him.

~*~

It’s almost too much.

She’s so warm, so wet, and so fucking tight...I swear I blackout for a second. It’s taking everything I got to hold on, and every ounce of control I can muster when she starts to move.

She’s groaning and sighing, and the way she’s breathing my name is like a siren’s song. I let her set the pace, tilt my hips to push into her as she rides me, find her hand and lace my fingers through hers. She fucks me slow, lets her head fall back and lays her free hand on my chest. Reaching up, I slide my hand between her tits, pinch and tug one nipple between my thumb and forefinger, and she lets out the most beautiful cry I’ve ever heard. And that sound wakes up the damn animal in me and I thrust into her, as deep as I can. I want her to fucking explode, feel her cunt throbbing tight around my dick and soaking me with her cum.

She pulls her hand from mine and moves it between her legs. I pinch her nipple again and she gasps as her body trembles, and I know she’s getting close. “Gonna come for me, YN?” I snarl, and she stills - her head falls back again and her fingers work faster, and I’m so caught up in her that I just start babbling. “Fuck yeah, YN, fucking come all over my cock…that’s my girl...” I pound into her faster as she gets tighter and wetter and then I feel it, her walls clenching and her cum dripping, her body finally going rigid as her orgasm tears through her.

I slow down and ease her through it, trace my fingertips over the curves of her glowing body and take in how absolutely stunning she is right now - her hair all mussed and tangled, her skin flushed pink, her lips bright red and swollen. Her eyes open and she grins down at me, the lazy roll of her hips picking up speed and I just...fucking...can't anymore.

I throw my arms around her and pull her against me, kissing her sweet lips as I roll us over. She arches into me, takes my face in her hands and purrs "...want it all inside me...I wanna feel your cum dripping from my cunt…" and holy goddamn shit, I'm gonna give her everything she wants.

She raises her knees and hooks her legs around mine, digs her heels into the back of my thighs, squeezes the walls of her pussy around me and I’m gone - all I feel is her silky wet heat, and all I can smell and taste is her sex and I drive in, fast and steady until I can’t hang on anymore. I let go and my world stops, every living fiber of my being at a standstill as I come with a shout. I thrust hard and deep and spill every drop inside of her, pumping her full as she fingers herself to another climax.

I rest my forehead against hers as we both catch our breath. She curls one hand around my waist and the other around the back of my shoulder, raking her fingernails gently along the base of my scalp. I kiss her, soft and quick, and pull out of her, rolling on to my back while I gather her in my arms.

I glance out the window. The snow’s still falling and the sun’ll start rising soon. The record is long over and skipping, and YN grips me tighter and shivers. “Hey, sweetheart...let me up,” I say, kissing her forehead. She groans but lets me go and I sit up, lean down to kiss her again and hop to my feet. I lift the needle off the record and find a quilt that’s tossed over one of the chairs. YN's curled on her side, and I can hardly wait to get back to her. I cover us both, pull her close, and I stare at her until I just can't keep my eyes open anymore. We drift off in each other’s arms and the last thought I think is a little prayer - that this is how I’ll fall asleep every night for the rest of my life.

~*~

I can’t remember who said it first. All I know is that it was suddenly there, as though it always had been, free falling from our lips as we moved and moaned and came together.

We’d awoken several times, one of us roused by a kiss or touch from the other, neither of us willing nor able to let it end without making love one more time.

The storm has finally passed. Sunshine beams across an azure sky and reflects with blinding brilliance off acres of freshly fallen snow. I peek out the kitchen window and catch a glimpse of Sam standing near the garage, up to his knees in icy white powder.

I set a kettle on the stove to boil.

“Look like we ain’t goin' anywhere any time soon,” Dean says, coming up behind me and circling his arms around me. He moves my hair away from my neck and nips at the exposed skin.

I lean against him and cover his clasped hands with mine. “Can’t say I’m all that disappointed.”

He hums and kisses my cheek, then moves his hands to rest on the swell of my belly.

“Your old man's gonna teach you how to make the best snowballs, kid. Knock your Uncle Sammy right off his ass.”

I giggle and spin around, draping my arms over Dean’s shoulders. “Big talk coming from the man who got a black eye during last year’s snowball fight.”

“That was a fluke. She had an unfair advantage.”

"She's less than half your size!”

“Exactly.”

The door opens and Sam trudges in, shaking and stomping the snow from his legs, laughing as he's nearly knocked over by a whirling, bright pink dervish of weatherproof polyester.

Our daughter runs over to us, cheeks rosy and nose runny from the cold, her apple-green eyes as big as sledding saucers.

“Mommy, Daddy, guess what?! We had a snowball fight and I won!”

“Ho ho! That’s my awesome little girl!” Dean cheers, scooping her up in his arms and swinging her through the air. He rests her on his hip, and they trade an Eskimo kiss. “Let’s go tell your Auntie Eileen and your baby cousin all about how you kicked your Uncle Sammy’s a - uh, butt.”

He sets her down and helps her unlace her boots while she tosses her hat and mittens to the floor. “Yeah, I kicked his ass!” she beams, and the three supposed adults in the room have to bite back their laughter.

“Yep,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Definitely a Winchester. No two ways...”

Once she's out of her boots and winter overall, she runs to Sam, grabs his thumb with her small hand and pulls him through the kitchen. Her tiny footsteps pelt up the stairs, layered with gleeful giggles. Then, with all the vivacity of her five years, she shrieks in triumph, “I beat you again, Uncle Sammy! I win again!”

Dean grins wide, pulls me back into his arms, and catches my lips in a kiss that teems with the same intense passion as the first one he ever gave me. And in seconds I’m melting, into his kiss, into him... into memories of a snowstorm and shag carpeting, the smoke of purple kush and the flicker of oil lamp flames, the pedal steel guitar riff of Lay Lady Lay and Dean’s hip-swaying serenade...

He breaks away, brushes a section of my hair away from my brow and tucks it behind my ear. Then he looks into my eyes with unwavering conviction and repeats the promise he’s made me every day since he took my hand in his - a promise that's as simple as it is complex, selfish yet altruistic, sometimes dubious but always definite, and anything and everything in between:

“I love you, YN.”

~Fin

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ambssssssssss · 4 years

Text

Heart of Fire

Catradora fanfic

Check AO3 for full tags and summary!

The light was blinding, beautiful, breathtaking, like the first sunset Adora had seen from Brightmoon when the sky was painted so many colors that Adora had never even seen before. It made her stop in her tracks, made her stare in awe and she did the same now. Except now, there was a sharp undercurrent of fear that had her limbs shaking and her breath coming short.

“CATRA!”

The magicat was enveloped in the light emanating from the Spirit Ember, her always-present smirk fading from view as the light grew brighter and brighter around her, a deep orange in color. Adora’s grip on She-Ra’s sword slipped and the blade clattered to the ground as Adora ran past it. Glimmer and Bow both tried to stop her from running towards the light but Adora ducked under their grasps with an ease that spoke of her existence as a child soldier until just a few months ago. Scorpia and Entrapta are there too, Adora knows, but she can’t bring herself to take into account their current positions. Her eyes, her mind, everything about her was focused on the point where Catra had faded into the light.

As she gets closer, Adora can feel the heat there too. Now that’s close enough she can see that the light isn’t just bright and orange, it’s burning. Smokeless, odorless, but as hot as any fire. Adora’s fear for Catra suddenly shot up even higher.

Without stopping to think about it, Adora dove into the strange fire in search of her lost best friend. She tumbled as she hit the ground on the other side of the wall of flame, coughing slightly as she rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself back into a standing position. The air around her was warmer inside the fire but Adora found herself unharmed. The fire seemed to be shaped like a dome, a barrier to the outside world. At the center of the dome stood the Spirit Ember, glowing in a steady pulse that was much more reassuring than the erratic flashes it had exhibited before. In front of the runestone, lying motionless on the ground, was Catra.

“Catra,” Adora called her name again as she rushed towards the fallen soldier. She slid onto her knee with the intent of lifting Catra’s body off the floor only to recoil in pain as soon as her hands came into contact with the soft fur on Catra’s arm. “What?”

Adora lifted her hands and saw the blisters forming there, burns. Catra was burning hot to the touch.

“Catra, what happened to you?”

Catra’s eyes were closed, her breathing too deep and even to be natural. The heat was growing more intense. They had to get out of there and soon, before they were both burned alive.

“I”m not leaving you behind Catra,” Adora knelt beside her again, her face set in grim determination. “Not again.”

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Adora slid her hands beneath Catra’s body and lifted her. Catra’s head settled against her shoulder limply, her overheated skin burning even through the long sleeves of Adora’s shirt. Forcing the pain out of her mind, Adora turned them around and began to make her way through the wall of fire again. This time, the fire parted as she approached and Adora walked through unharmed with the unconscious Catra in her arms. The battle on the other side of the wall of fire had come to a halt with Bow and Glimmer standing to one side and Scorpia and Entrapta on another. Adora’s and Catra’s names overlapped as their friends called for them.

“What did you do to her?” Scorpia asked with a hollow voice.

“Nothing, I didn’t do anything. She was like this when I found her.” Adora had to stop herself from saying that she’d never hurt Catra because she already had and no matter how much tried, how much she regretted hurting the one person who she’d always cared for, Adora couldn’t take her back. “The runestone did something when she touched it. We need to take her to Brightmoon.”

“You’re not leaving here with her,” Scorpia took a step forward, her claw wavering slightly as she gestured to Adora. “Give her to me. I’ll take her back to the Freight Zone.”

“Scorpia,” Adora spoke in a tone that Bow and Glimmer had never heard from before. Desperation and fear and love rolled into one voice. The other two members of the best friends squad shared a look that said they both had come to the same realization. “Brightmoon is the safest place for her. The runestone is magic, she needs magic to heal. I promise, once she’s better we’ll let her go back to the Freight Zone if that’s what she wants. Please, don’t fight us.”

A look passed between Scorpia and Adora, neither of them looking away. Catra’s tail that had hung limply until then curled up slightly, a moan-like sound escaping her lips and she burrowed deeper into Adora’s chest. Scorpia’s eyes widened in realization and then her expression became sullen.

“I always knew there was something,” Sorpia said, mostly to herself. “Fine, but I want to be updated about her progress. If she needs anything...well,”

“We’ll let you know,” Glimmer spoke up as she and Bow came to stand on either side of Adora and Catra. Scorpia nodded once.

“Okay, let’s go Entrapta.”

“That was one of the most fascinating encounters I have yet to see,” Entrapta muttered into her recorder as she and Scorpia exited the castle at Candila. “Prolonged eye contact seems to be some advanced form of communication…”

“Adora, are you sure about this?” Glimmer asked as Entrapta’s voice faded away. “Taking Catra to Brightmoon? She’s the Horde’s second in command!”

“Please Glimmer. I can’t leave her, not again. Not like this.” Adora looked down at Catra’s unconscious face, her shirt burned black under Catra’s head. “It’s Catra. She’s…”

“We know,” Bow stepped up and put a comforting hand on Adora’s shoulder. “Of course we’ll take her with us. But-What’s wrong with your hands?”

Adora’s hands were now a deep red, burned. She’d gone numb to the pain. “Nothing, they’ll heal when I transform into She-Ra again. We need to go, before she gets worse.”

Bow and Glimmer followed Adora out of the castle to where the rest of the Princess Alliance was waiting to step in if things got too out of control.

“So, like, are we going to do something about that?” Mermista asked while pointing at Adora and Catra. “She’s evil, right?”

“She’s hurt and Adora promised to help her get better,” Glimmer answered. “We’ll worry about the evil bit later.”

“Whatever,” Mermista shrugged and walked away to fall into step with Perfuma and Frosta.

‘Do you think she realizes? Adora, I mean.” Bow asked as the group began walking in the direction of Brightmoon.

“That she’s in love with Catra? Not a chance but,” Glimmer paused for a moment. “I don’t know if she knows what love is. Romantic love. Growing up in the Horde…”

“Yeah, I know,” Bow scratched the back of his neck. “But she must know she feels different about her, right? Now that she has other friends to compare it to?”

“Maybe she thinks she feels different about us. Catra’s her normal,” Glimmer shrugged. “It doesn’t matter right now. Once Catra gets better, they can figure it out. We just need to keep Adora from doing something stupid until then.”

“Right, we can do that. Best Friend Squad for Life!” Bow cheered and then smiled thoughtfully. “Do you think we can be a quartet once Catra wakes up?”

Glimmer shrugged noncommittally but she had a feeling that forming a quartet would simply be the beginning of their relationship with Catra.

They walked together for a long while, until Glimmer was close enough to safely teleport herself, Adora and Catra back to the Brightmoon. Teleporting to the middle of the War Room while Adora cradled an unconscious Catra in her arms might not have been Glimmer’s best idea but it was the fastest way to make sure she met her mother first.

“Glimmer? Adora? What’s going on?” Queen Angella was on her feet as soon as the girls faded into view, her wings snapping out for a moment when she caught sight of Catra.

“Something happened when Catra touched the Spirit Ember, Mom,” Glimmer explained. “We have to help her.”

“You want us to heal the Horde’s second-in-command?” Angella had thought, hoped, her daughter was done surprising her with reckless actions during the middle of a war.

“No,” Glimmer said with the long-suffering annoyance of a teenager, “we want you to help us heal Adora’s best friend.” Glimmer accompanied her sentence with a wide-eyed expression, making a heart shape with her hands. Queen Angella looked puzzled at the motion.

“Please, Your Majesty,” Adora spoke up, tearing her gaze away from Catra for the first time since she arrived. Angella saw something in Adora’s eyes that she hadn’t expected, the same fear that Angella had felt so long ago every time her husband left with a chance that he wouldn’t return to her. “I have to help her.”

“I see,” Queen Angella folded her wings back against her back, nodding once in Glimmer’s direction to signal that she understood. “Take her to the guest room, I must contact Castaspella.”

Adora accepted the order with a slight bow of her head and let the guards lead her to the room where Catra would be staying. Once there, she carefully placed Catra down on the bed and took a seat beside her, leaning down to whisper in Catra’s ear.

“You’re going to be okay Catra. I promise. Just keep fighting.” Adora looked a Catra’s face for a moment as if waiting for a response, but none came.

“Let’s get your hands taken care of and get you cleaned up,” Glimmer said softly, offering Adora a warm smile when she looked up. “If we move fast enough, we can be back before Aunt Cass gets here.”

“Sure,” Adora looked down at her red and blistered hands for a moment, the black marks on her clothing where Catra’s body had rested against her. She squeezed Catra’s hand once, concealing a sudden burst of pain that the movement caused, and then stood to follow Glimmer out of the room.

~/~

She was surrounded by heat, it licked at her fur and stung her eyes. Catra had never felt so hot in her life. Sure she wasn’t a stranger to warmth or the heat generated from physical exercise, she was a soldier after all, but this was different. This wasn’t just a heat around her, enveloping her. This was a heat that arose from within. Someone called Catra’s name.

“Adora?” Catra called in a scratchy voice, coughing as she struggled into a sitting position. She didn’t remember being knocked down in the first place and frowned. Her frown deepened when she lifted her head and found herself in an unfamiliar setting. “Adora?”

Catra stood and the air around her was suddenly ablaze. She let out a startled scream as the fire rose around her, stumbling backwards in an attempt to evade the flames. The flames continued to close in on her as Catra’s back collided with something hard behind her and she closed her eyes, moving her hands like she could push the fire away from her with willpower alone. She waited for a long moment and then opened her eyes.

The flames had come to a stop a few inches out from Catra’s hand, they danced calmly, almost lazily, like Catra’s tail flicking in the wind.

“What the hell is going on?”

You have been chosen

Catra whirled around, searching for the source of the voice. “Show yourself!”

You have been chosen. The Trial has begun.

“Trial? What Trial?” Catra looked all around herself again, turning in surprise when the wall she had been leaning on fell away. “Who are you?”

The path is open to you. Find the flame before it finds you

A doorway opened in the place where there had previously been a wall. Catra turned her back to the open path. “Find the flame before it finds you?” She parroted with a cruel laugh, looking at the fire still dancing around her. “Too late for that.”

Cool air drifted over her from the open doorway. Catra was surprised when she shivered in response. “Okay two options, stay here until the creepy fire decides to move again,” Catra looked at the flames wearily. “Or go down the creepy tunnel and hope I can find a way out of this place.”

The flames danced a little more, shifting this was and that in a way that made it seem like they were pointing towards the tunnel. Catra followed their direction, ignoring the voice in her head that said she had a third option, calling for Adora again. Not like Adora would come anyway.

The pathway was apparently lined with torches which lit up as soon as Catra stepped through the doorway. The flames behind her surged forward to block the path backwards, Catra managing to jump out of the way just in time to save her tail from being scorched.

“Down the creepy tunnel it is.”

~/~

Castaspella brought with her two special magic users known as Spirit Healers. Although wary of helping anyone associated with the Horde, Cass had agreed to at least have Catra examined by the healers as a favor to her niece. Queen Angella walked her to the room where Catra had been placed.

“I feel I should warn you,” Angella spoke when they stopped outside the door. “Adora will be there, I doubt she will leave Catra’s side until she is healed, but I do not believe she fully understands why.”

“I assume they were friends before Adora left the Horde,” Cass said.

“Yes, but I am unsure that friends are all they are to one another. Adora worries for Catra the way I worried for Micah.”

“Adora loves her?” Castaspella turned to the Queen with a look of surprise. Angella nodded.

“Not that she’s aware of that yet, from my understanding love is not something that exists in the Horde,” Angella shook her head slightly. “I just did not want you to be surprised if Adora seems different than you expected.”

“You mean if Adora transforms into She-Ra the second she feels that someone is threatening Catra?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Wonderful,” Castapella pushed the door open and stepped through.

Adora looked up from her intense study of Catra’s face when the door opened, climbing to her feet to bow respectfully to the Queen and sorceress.

“Adora, how is she?” Queen Angella asked as they stepped further into the room, sending a guard to fetch the Spirit Healers.

“No change,” Adora’s hands were wrapped in white gauze and she was dressed in a pair of pants and shirt that seemed to be borrowed from Bow, hanging loosely off her body. “Be careful with her,” Adora held her hands up in display when Casstaspella leant down to touch Catra’s arm. “Her fur will burn you.”

“Thank you for the warning, Adora,” Cass stood up straight again and moved her hands in a pattern of fire protection. A moment later the spell took hold and Cass placed her hand against Catra’s arm. Even through her fire protection spell, Cass could feel the heat coming from Catra. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“She accidentally touched the Spirit Ember. Fire surrounded her and I jumped in to save her. She was already unconscious by the time I reached her.”

“The Spirit Ember?” Cass turned to Angella. “Is it real?”

“Indeed, the Princess Alliance journey to Mount Candila to secure its power for the Rebellion.” Angella explained with a slight inclination of her hand. “It seems that Catra has had some sort of reaction from touching the unstable runestone.”

“She didn’t mean to,” Adora bowed her head in shame and regret. “It was my fault. We were fighting and I knocked her into the runestone. She wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”

“Catra made her own decisions that brought her to Candila, you are not responsible for them,” Angella came around to the other side of the bed and rested her hands on Adora’s shoulders. Adora’s expression said she didn’t agree, but she let the matter drop for the moment as the two Spirit Healer’s walked in. They were duly warned of Catra’s overheated body and applied the same fire protection spell to their hands before beginning their evaluation.

Adora moved out of the way with Queen Angella by her side, standing tensley while the healer’s worked to determine what had put Catra into such a state. Her unhealed hands ached in their wrappings but she didn’t want to leave so she could transform long enough to heal them yet. Not when she didn’t know what was wrong with Catra yet. If they needed to move her again, Adora wanted to be there. She didn’t trust anyone to be careful enough with her.

“Impossible,” One of the Healer’s spoke suddenly, one hand resting in the air above Catra’s heart and the other over her temple. Adora had taken a step forward without thinking, it was only Angella’s hand on her shoulder that stopped her from moving all the way over to the bed.

“What is it?” Angella asked. The Healer’s traded a look with one another and then with Castaspella.

“There is nothing physically wrong with Catra. It is her soul that is in danger.”

“What does that mean?” Adora asked.

“The runestone must have been less stable than we thought,” Queen Angella said, mostly to herself. “It formed a bond with Catra as soon as she came in contact with it.”

“Yes, but the dormant power is strong. Catra’s soul must bring this power under control if she is to return to us.”

“And if she can’t?” Adora asked in a low voice.

“Then she will be lost to the flame within.”

The silence that followed the statement was deafening.

~/~

“There has to be something we can do to help her!” Adora was pacing along the hall outside of Catra’s room joined by Glimmer and Bow, who had just returned to Brightmoon with the other members of the Princess Alliance. The Sword of Protection was leaning against the wall where Adora had set it after transforming to She-Ra and back so her injuries would heal.

“The Healer’s will let us know,” Glimmer said in an encouraging voice. “We’ll make sure nothing happens to Catra.”

“Except something already happened to Catra and it’s my fault,” Adora stopped pacing suddenly, seeming to deflate as she covered her face with her hands. “It’s my fault.”

“Adora,” Bow pulled her into a warm hug. “You didn’t make catra fight you. That was her choice, you can’t blame yourself for reacting to that.”

“She’s my friend. She was my best friend,” Adora was trying hard to keep her tears in but they fell from her eyes anyway. “She was my best friend and I left her behind.”

“Not this time, not when she needed you,” Glimmer stepped up to join in the hug on Adora’s other side. “We can’t pretend that Catra hasn’t done some bad things, but she needs our help now and that’s what matters. We can deal with everything else later.”

“She’s your enemy,” Adora wiped at her eyes, almost angry at herself for crying.

“So were you when we first met, there’s no reason that Catra can’t change too.” Bow said easily. “We’re willing to give her the chance if she wants it.”

“And we’ll make sure that everyone else does too,” Glimmer promised.

“Thanks guys,” Adora sniffled slightly.

“There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for you, Adora. That’s why we’re the Best Friend Squad.”

Before Glimmer could add anything to Bow’s statement, the door to Catra’s room opened and Castaspella stepped out.

“The Healer’s have finished their examination,” she said, “they have determined that Catra must harness the power of fire on her own. There is nothing that we can physically do to help.”

Adora was visibly downcast at the news but Bow’s eyes had lit up. “Does that mean there’s something we can do that isn’t physical?”

“As a matter of fact,” Castaspella smiled. “There is.”

The spell was a simple illusion principle, but it would take a large amount of power and would only hold for a few minutes. Once the spell was cast, Adora would be able to speak to and see Catra in the place where her soul had gone to harness the fire, but she would not be able to touch anything. The connection wouldn’t last long so Adora would need to get all the information she could from Catra and give all the information she had in return.

“You will only have one chance at this. If you cannot find Catra, we cannot simply try again. You would be sending your very soul to Catra. Doing so more than once will put you in too much danger,” Castaspella explained to Adora where she lay in the bed beside Catra. “For the spell to work, you must focus only on Catra. Think of nothing but speaking to her. Seeing her.”

Adora nodded her understanding. Speaking to Catra, even arguing with her as they had been so prone to do since Adora left the Horde and Catra stayed, was all she had wanted to do since she discovered Catra’s unconscious form. “I’m ready.”

Castaspella stepped away from the bed and gestured for the Healer’s to begin the spell. Bow, Glimmer and Angella stood near the door as the only people allowed to view the spell. The Healer’s began to move their hands in a complicated pattern, each of them completing one half of the two-sided spell. The first Healer placed their hand over Adora’s eyes as the first part of the spell took hold, sending Adora into a deep sleep. The second Healer made a pulling motion with their hands, pulling Adora’s soul from her body and sending it to meet with Catra’s. Adora’s body fell into a relaxed unconsciousness as the Healer’s settled into the holding stances they would maintain until Adora awoke again.

~/~

The heat around Catra had settled into an almost soothing presence, a constant reminder to keep moving. She had been walking down the torch lit hallway for a seemingly endless amount of time. Each stepped carried her further from the doorway she entered but she didn’t feel like she was any closer to reaching the end.

The warrior of your heart has arrived

Catra whirled around as the voice sounded in her head again, only familiar in that it was unfamiliar. There was no one there.

“Catra?”

Catra looked up, startled. “Adora?”

“Catra!” Adora’s voice was louder now, closer. “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

“Where are you? How did you get here?”

“I followed you,” Adora was suddenly there, stepping out of the shadows created by the torch light. “Catra.”

“Hey Adora,” Catra said with her signature smirk. To someone who didn’t know her better, Catra would look the picture of relaxed ease. Adora did know her better though, and she could tell that Catra was unsettled. She didn’t know if that was because of Adora’s presence or the place where they were.

“Catra, please, we don’t have much time. You’re in danger.”

“From what? You? Haven’t we already proved I’m the better fighter?” Catra looked away to hide the grimace at the memory of her claws raking across Adora’s back with the full intent of causing as much pain as possible.

“I’m not here to fight you. I can’t,” Adora stepped further into the light. Neither she nor Catra realized that Adora didn’t have a shadow. “Listen Catra, the runestone activated when you touched it. It bonded with you but it’s unstable.”

“Is that why it’s so warm in here? It is the fire runestone right?” Catra’s tail swayed lazily even as her shoulders tensed.

“Damn it Catra this isn’t a game!” Catra turned to Adora with wide eyes. In all the years she’d known Adora, she’d never heard her curse. “Your life's on the line here!”

“What are you talking about?” Catra took in Adora’s almost frantic expression, her badly fitting clothes and the panic in her eyes.

“The Spirit Ember bonded with you and if you can’t calm down the fire within, it will destroy you just like the Fire Princess destroyed her kingdom.”

“You’re saying a runestone sent me here?” Catra asked, skeptical.

“Yes, and a runestone will keep you here if you don’t fight. Catra, please. You have to do this on your own.”

“If that’s true then why are you here?” Catra stepped closer to Adora and noticed the translucent quality of her former best friend. “Wait, you’re not actually here are you? What is this, a figment of my imagination? A memory?”

“It’s really me Catra, but I couldn’t be here physically. I can’t help you with this, as much as I want to.”

“Which is none at all. Why would you help me? You left me.” Catra fought to keep her voice from breaking but it did anyway and she scowled at the way her one body betrayed her.

“I left the Horde Catra, I couldn’t stay there anymore, but I never wanted to leave you. You chose to stay,” Adora shook her head sadly.

“Where would I have gone? To the Rebellion? Did you think I would drop everything to follow you?” Catra crossed her arms over her chest in a protective stance.

“I don’t know,” Adora hung her head low. That was the truth. She didn’t know what she thought Catra would do, she only knew what she wanted Catra to do. “I wanted you to come with me, it broke my heart to leave you behind. No matter how hard I try, I can’t think of you as my enemy.”

“Why’s that? You pity me too much?” Venom dripped from Catra’s tongue and the temperature in the hall rose several degrees.

“Because I care about you too much!” If Adora could have, she would have held onto Catra’s arms, pulled her into a hug, anything to show how much she meant what she was saying. “You’ve been my best friend for as long as I could remember. We promised to always look out for one another. I don’t know how to not care about you because it’s always been you there with me. It’s always been you who mattered the most to me.”

Adora’s chest was heaving with emotion. Catra was staring with wide eyes. She had half a thought about making some snarky comment about Adora telling herself that enough times to easy her guilt but the words wouldn’t come. Adora’s words were laced with guilt and agony and some emotion that Catra couldn’t identify but she knew it was important. Adora’s image wavered and Catra found herself reaching out for her.

“I don’t have much time left,” Adora’s voice took on an echo-y quality. “Catra, fight. Please. You’ve never gone down without a fight before, don’t start now.”

“I promise,” the words slipped from Catra’s lips easily, too easily. She’d never been good at denying Adora. “Adora, I-”

“We’ll finish this when you wake up,” Adora held her hand up in a half hearted wave. “Don’t forget your promise.”

“I won’t,” Catra watched as Adora’s image faded away.

Squaring her shoulders, Catra turned back to the direction she had been walking in and set off again. She moved faster now, a sense of urgency born from Adora’s warning. Catra had to know what it all meant. Catra had to identify that last emotion in Adora’s voice. Catra needed to find her way home.

She didn’t know if that meant Adora or the Horde.

~/~

Adora came awake slowly, like she had simply taken a nap rather than a complex illusion spell cast on her that sent her soul to meet with Catra’s. She was still on the bed beside Catra with the two Spirit Healer’s leaning over them. Their stances relaxed as the magic of the spell faded away.

“Were you successful?” Angella asked from her place near the door.

“I think so,” Adora glanced over at Catra’s still form. “Now we wait?”

“Now we wait.” Glimmer settled into one of three chairs that had appeared in the room while Adora was out, arranged near the side of Catra’s bed. Bow fell into the next chair, leaving the one closest to the bed for Adora.

“We will leave you be,” Angella waved her guards out and instructed them to send the Healer’s to their quarters to rest. Castaspella followed them out. “If anything changes, please alert us.”

“What was it like?” Bow asked once the door was closed and Adora was settled in the seat left for her.

“I didn’t really look around,” Adora admitted. “But she looked the same as always.”

“Did she believe you?” Glimmer asked, leaning forward in her seat. Adora nodded.

“She promised to fight her way out. There’s a conversation we need to have.”

Bow and Glimmer shared a look and then entered a brief, whispered debate that ended with Bow suddenly climbing to his feet.

“Well, I think we could all use a warm drink. I’ll be right back,” he looked at Glimmer. “Do it.”

“So,” Glimmer said to break the silence after Bow left. “Catra means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”

“She’s always been there for me,” Adora said. “We grew up together. Everywhere I went, there she was. Coming here without her felt like leaving a part of myself behind.”

“Like your heart?”

“Yeah,” Adora turned her head to glance at Glimmer out of the corner of her eye. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Doing? I’m not doing anything.”

“You know, your voice gets very high pitched when you lie,” Adora smiled slightly as Glimmer grumbled under her breath. “But it’s okay. If it had been anyone else, you’d be right. No one in the Horde knows anything about love.”

“But you do?” Glimmer spoke softly. Adora’s gaze remained on Catra.

“I didn’t before. Not really. I knew that I felt differently about Catra than anyone else, but the Horde isn’t about relationships. We were teammates and best friends. That’s all we could ever be in the Horde,” Adora sighed. “But then I came here, I learned about love. I learned that the way I love Catra is different than the way I love you and Bow. Realizing that was like losing her all over again.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know that anything like this was possible until I met Bow’s dads. Plus, she was our enemy, the second in command of the Horde. How could you trust me to fight by your side if you knew I was in love with the enemy?” Adora shook her head. “I couldn’t run the risk of losing you, too.”

“You wouldn’t have lost us, Adora. You won’t lose us.” Glimmer promised, leaning over to put her hand on Adora’s shoulder. “Love isn’t anything to be ashamed about. It’s something to celebrate! And you were our enemy once too, remember? I promised to give Catra a chance and I stand by that promise. But you have to do something for me.”

“What’s that?” Adora turned her head to look at Glimmer.

“Tell her, whether she goes back to the Horde or stays here. You deserve the chance to say it and she deserves the chance to hear it.”

“And what happens after that?” Adora looked down at her healed hands. “What happens when she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“If that happens, we’ll figure it out when we get there.” Privately, Glimmer thought that Catra was more likely to return Adora’s feelings than she was to reject them, but Adora didn’t need to hear that just then. “Promise you’ll talk to her?”

“I promise.”

~/~

The air was growing colder the further Catra walked. A feeling like someone was watching her had the hairs on the back of her neck standing up and she found herself pausing every few steps to listen for someone following her. She was tempted to call for Adora but decided against it. If she paused to think about the conversation she and Adora had had earlier, she wouldn’t be focused enough to ‘calm the flame’ whatever that meant.

The time is near.

Catra stopped dead in her tracks, tail and ears flicking.

The fire awaits.

A door appeared before her in the space that she was sure had just been more of the long hallway a second ago.

Step through.

The door swung open silently. Catra peered through it but there was nothing to see on the other side except black emptiness. A sound like rushing air behind her made Catra glance over her shoulder and she discovered that the empty hallway she had walked through was now covered in fire. She only had one way to go.

Steeling herself with the confident attitude that had led her to become the second in command of the Horde, Catra stepped through the doorway.

The room on the other side was circular and large, lit by a ring of warm fire that rose to just below Catra’s knees. The door disappeared as Catra passed through, a solid wall replacing it.

Welcome, Champion of Fire

Catra stepped further into the room, searching high and low for the source of the voice. There was nothing in the room except a glowing gemstone. It was vaguely familiar and after studying it for a moment, Catra recognized it as the Spirit Ember in Mount Candila, but this was it uncovered as it had been before the destruction of the Kingdom of Flames. Catra approached the runestone slowly, settling back on her haunches when a figure suddenly began to appear. It was humanoid in shape but composed of living flame, always changing shape and dancing to an unheard song.

“We have waited a long time for you,” although there was no mouth, it was clear the voice was coming from the fire figure. “Champion of Fire, the Flame bids you greeting.”

“Um, hi?” Catra stood up straight again, cocking her head to the side in curiosity as the flame figure glided across the room.

“The Trial of Fire awaits you. Do you accept the challenge?”

“The Trial of Fire? What is that?” If a living flame shaped in a vaguely human shape could be surprised, Catra guesses it would look something like this: a shockingly expressive pillar of fire that stopped moving suddenly.

“You do not know of the Trial?” Catra shook her head. “How did you come to be here then? Were you not chosen?”

“No,” Catra looked away for a moment. “I touched the Spirit Ember by accident. I wasn’t chosen by anything.”

“But you are here, so you must have been chosen,” the fire sounded speculative. “An outsider has not been chosen for thousands of years.”

“No one has been chosen for thousands of years,” Catra pointed out. “Not since the last Fire Princess destroyed her Kingdom.”

“The Kingdom of Flame is no more?” The fire became darker suddenly, the light in the room dimming. Catra nodded her head. “That cannot be. The Mountain Flame is still burning.”

“Yeah, I have no idea what that means but there is no Kingdom of Flame anymore,” Catra watched the flame figure warily as it moved in a pacing motion.

“There must be, if the Ember has chosen a new Champion. The Flame Kingdom is still alive, yes, but different…” the flame moved in a way that gave the impression of turning around. “The Ember has chosen you. Do you accept the challenge?”

“If I say yes, can I get out of here?” Catra said, rolling her eyes. This flame thing was talking in riddles. How can a kingdom be dead and alive at the same time?

“You must face the Flame, become one with the Ember. Then you will return.” The flame figure moved closer to Catra. “Do you accept?”

Catra hesitated for a moment, thinking about her promise to Adora and the questions she still needed to answer. She promised she would fight her way out and she would keep her promise, even if that meant fighting against literal fire.

“I accept.”

A whoosh like a fire starting sounded as the flames surged around Catra. The room went dark as Catra and the flame-figure disappeared.

~/~

You are lost

I am here

You are hurt

I am strong

You feel guilt

I...have made mistakes

Can you forgive her?

I already have

Can you forgive yourself?

I don’t know

Is power all that you desire?

I thought so but…

Your heart craves something else

Yes

Your heart craves her

Yes

Does this make you weak?

I-No. No.

Are you certain?

No.

You have made your choice.

I have.

Do you accept?

I do.

The Flame bids you farewell, then.

The Princess of Fire has returned!

~/~

Adora was sitting in a chair she pulled over to Catra’s bed when the change happened. She’d been half asleep, the moon shining high in the starless sky, but she refused to let her eyes fall closed until Catra’s eyes opened. Adora sprang to her feet when a sound like fire crackling reached her ears, the temperature in the room rising to an almost unbearable temperature and settling just as quickly. On the bed, Catra’s eyes sprang open.

“Catra?” Adora was beside her in a second but hesitated to touch her, not just because she didn’t want to be burned again but because she suddenly realized that she and Catra were still enemies, despite whatever promises they had made before.

“Hey Adora,” Catra was smiling slightly, pulling herself into a sitting position.

“You came back?”

“I made a promise.”

“Catra, I-”

“Adora! We heard - Catra!” Glimmer appeared in the room in a shower of sparkles. “You’re awake.”

“Glitter,” Catra acknowledged, purposefully saying the wrong name. Catra turned her gaze back to Adora. “Why am I here?”

“You were injured by magic, I thought magic would heal you. Good magic, not Shadow Weaver. I brought you here when you collapsed.” Adora stood up from where she had taken a seat on the bed. Glimmer watched her movement with amusement, clearly remembering the conversation they had had earlier.

“The Spirit Healer’s from Mystacor helped Adora contact you before,” Glimmer explained. “I’ll let my mother know you’re awake.”

Glimmer was out of the room as fast as she entered.

“Does she do that a lot?” Catra asked, stretching.

“Yes,” Adora confirmed with a small laugh. “How are you feeling?”

“Warm,” Catra was looking over her body like she expected it to be different. “But okay. Even if I am in Brightmoon.”

“Yeah, I might have insisted on bringing you here. Scorpia was not happy.” Adora blushed prettily. “I’ll have to send her a message now that you’re awake.”

“She’ll be happy to hear that,” Catra poked at the pillows on the bed, marvelling at how soft they were.

“I’m glad you have her as a friend,” Adora said softly. “I’m glad she was there for you when I couldn’t be.”

“I didn’t make it easy for her,” Catra shrugged. “Still don’t.”

“It’s worth it anyway, speaking from personal experience.”

“But not worth enough to not leave me behind,” It wasn’t a question, just a statement. A starting point for the conversation that needed to happen.

“I didn’t want to leave you, Catra. I never wanted that.”

“But you left anyway,” Catra was looking around the room, anywhere except Adora.

“I had to. The Horde...what they’re doing is wrong. I couldn’t be a part of that anymore. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t miss you or that leaving you didn’t tear me apart inside,” Adora stayed where she was, not making any attempt to closer or further away from Catra.

“Funny way of showing it,” Catra mumbled.

“We are at war, Catra! As much as I would like to run up and kiss you every time I see you, a battlefield isn’t exactly the place for that. Especially not when you’re attacking me!”

“As much as you would like to what?” Catra was frozen, everything except her tail which twitched in anticipation. Adora stopped short, her eyes growing wide as she mentally repeated what she just said.

“Um, hug you?” A lam substitute that Catra was definitely not going to fall for but Adora needed to do something to save her dignity. She had not intended to admit her desire to kiss Catra.

“That’s not what you said,” Catra was turned around now, faceing Adora head on instead of looking away. Her face held more expressions than Adora had ever seen on her. Doubt, fear, happiness. “You said you want to kiss me.”

“Is that what I said?” Another dumb diversion tactic that failed immediatly. Catra stalked closer to Adora, climbing off the bed to stand in front of her. “That’s crazy.”

“You mean it?” Catra’s ears were dropping, a sure sign that her guard was down for the moment. Adora took a deep breath, intending to not let the moment go to waste.

“I mean it, Catra,” Adora looked deeply into Catra’s eyes. “I’ve always felt differently about that but I didn’t know if it was okay before. I didn’t know if I was okay with it before.”

“And now?” Catra was close enough that she could feel Adora’s breath on her face now, her head tilted up slightly so they were still looking one another in the eye.

“Now, I know, but I won’t do anything unless you want me to.” Adora glanced away for a moment and then back at Catra. “I want whatever we are now to be your choice.”

“My choice?” Catra was stunned. She’d never been given a choice in her life, not a real one. Her choices were always do what you’re told or face the consequences. Never before had she been trusted with a choice like this.

“Your choice,” Adora confirmed.

Catra had already made her choice, the second she told the Spirit Ember that she’d already forgiven Adora for leaving her. Catra had made her choice ages ago, as a child who promised to always protect the only friend she had at the time.

“What do you choose?” Catra asked Adora, the space between their bodies growing even smaller.

“You,” Adora answered a second later. “I choose you Catra, but this isn’t my choice alone. You have to choose me too.”

“I do,” Catra’s voice fell to a whisper. “I choose you. I always have.”

Adora’s smile was brighter than anything Catra had ever seen and she felt her lips grow into the same shape. “Catra,” Adora began, lifting her hands to cradle Catra’s head but stopping just shy of touching her. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Catra breathed the word and then her lips were pressed against Adora’s. They kissed softly, slowly, the new warmth in Catra’s heart rising to a muted inferno. Only Catra’s sheer force of will kept fire from coming to life in her hands.

They parted when a knock sounded on the door, both of them feeling flushed and elated. Adora took a small step back when the door swung up to reveal Queen Angella and Glimmer, Bow behind them, but kept her hand where it was now clutched in Catra’s.

“Good, you are well,” Queen Angella spoke to Catra. “Do you know what happened to you?”

“Yes,” Catra held up her free hand, closed her eyes for a moment in concentration, opened them and then snapped her fingers. A tiny flame rose over her index finger. “The Spirit Ember has chosen a new Princess.”

Luckily, Bow was there to catch Glimmer when she fainted.

#catradora #catradora fanfic #i caved a wrote a thing #ambs writes #ambs speaks #i love them okay #but it under a cut bc it's long #much longer than intended #(that's what she said)#i'm tired plz ignore my rambles

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keelywolfe · 4 years

Text

FIC: Hooded (spicyhoney, stand alone)

Summary: Underfell has strict rules and harsh penalties for breaking them. That's what Edge has been telling Rus, but sometimes the lessons don't stick.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Violence, Mild Gore, Arguments, Near Death Experience, Claiming, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

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Edge’s breath clouded around him in the crisp Snowdin air as he slogged through the snow along the trap line. There was a path that ran through the woods for travelers, kept clear when it was possible to maintain, but EXP stalkers were hardly going to announce themselves by taking the main routes. Traps kept them at bay, particularly since Edge took over as captain and began designing them himself, but they required daily maintenance. Each one carefully checked to make sure tripwires weren’t cut or to clear away any dust before resetting it.

Snow was starting to fall again, large flakes settling on his skull as Edge knelt to check yet another wire. He dusted it away impatiently before heading off to the next, keeping a wary eye on the shadows between the trees towering over him.

Few Monsters would be bold enough to confront him; his uniform was a warning in itself and even the barest check of his LV would give most pause. But there were others in the depths of Snowdin woods, Monsters whose LV had overtaken them, their sanity stolen. Those Monsters wouldn’t bother with a check before they came slavering out of the woods with bleary, reddened eyes, teeth bared and ready to slaughter any in their reach.

Traveling on the Snowdin path was dangerous as it was and here along the tree line where he kept the deadliest traps required the greatest caution, without distraction.

Which was why he sighed in irritation when his phone vibrated just as he crouched to check another trap. He spared a cautious look at the shadowy spaces between the trees and saw nothing, kept his gaze on the forest depths as he pulled out his battered phone to see the call was from Red.

His brother would not interrupt him without good cause and he flicked the answer button.

“What’s wrong?” Edge said curtly. Static, wincingly loud in the hush of new fallen snow came through the speaker, followed by his brother’s crackling voice.

“hey, boss,” Red’s voice was terse, “got a report of a skeleton walking down the path in your direction. not sure exactly where, but from the description, it sounds like your pretty little bed warmer.”

A chill ran through his bones, worse than any mere scatterings of snow, laced with disbelief. He turned towards the path and started walking, his boots breaking noisily through the crust of the snow. “Where are you?”

“hotland, at the sentry post leading into new home.”

Fuck. Too many shortcuts to get here then, enough to drain away his brother’s magic. Even if Red came the only thing he would accomplish was putting himself in danger as well and EXP hunters weren’t the only danger on the path, not for a Monster without sanctions to be in their territory. Even if the other sentries had caught glimpses of Rus in town, he was travelling without the proper permissions. It was as good as a target on his back.

“Did you already message the dogs?” Edge demanded.

“yep, but it might not matter if they’ve already got his scent, you know how they are.”

Even as he said it, Edge heard the distant baying howl and he started to run.

He could hear the snarling, snapping teeth as he finally burst through the low bushes to the path and the scene before him struck terror in his soul of the like he hadn’t felt since he was a helpless child.

Rus was backing away from the Dogi, hands extended as if it hold them off. Not far away Edge could see the remains of a basket, mangled foodstuffs mashed into the ground and he understood immediately. A picnic lunch, Rus traveling down the Snowdin path as innocent as Little Red Hood, never suspecting there were wolves on his heels.

Dogamy and Dogaressa were ruthlessly efficient as a fighting pair, moving in tandem, the slavering teeth gnashing on empty air as Rus teleported away. Not nearly as far as Edge would have hoped, stumbling as he came out of the shortcut. Every jump was draining him and there was no way of knowing how many times this very scene had already played out.

The Dogi were his allies, his sentries who followed his every order loyally and Edge didn’t so much as hesitate as he sent a wave of sharpened bones at them, the vicious intent embedded within each sending them both yelping to the ground.

“That’s enough!” Edge shouted, his voice echoing through the clearing. “He’s mine!

The bloodlust slowly cleared from their reddened eyes as his words registered, leaving behind confusion and dismay, both Dogs crawling towards him on their bellies, groveling and whimpering.

Sorry (…So sorry)

No collar? (No scent?)

Pet needs a collar (Yes, a collar)

A mark (Yes, needs to be marked)

“Are you questioning me?” Edge said. His voice was cool, even, a pointed contrast to the volcanic heat he could feel burning in his eye sockets, the LV tainting his eye lights glaring out at them.

Both cringed instantly, whining pitifully as they cowered into the icy ground.

“Go,” Edge ordered, and they did, scrambling gratefully away, scampering along the path back to their station.

Rus was watching, breathing heavily, and Edge wondered distantly what he was thinking. A picnic, by the Asgore’s fucking fury, he’d actually come to Underfell with a picnic, mistaking the hard-won safety in Snowdin as extending into the woods when he should have guessed the truth, should have abided by the warnings Edge gave him to never, never go past the barricades that surrounded the town.

His soul was burning, throbbing like a poisoned wound, and his fury at the Dogi was eager to find another target.

But it was the stone-cold embers leftover from his fear that sent him striding over to Rus, grabbed him by his upper arms and shaking him roughly so that his head wobbled on his neck like a flower bobbing in a windstorm. He let go just as quickly, forcing his hands to loosen; Edge couldn’t trust them, his world was a danger to Rus, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be.

Words were an equal weapon anyway, ones that could hurt as deeply as any blade.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Edge leaned in close, snarling only inches from Rus’s shocked, white face.

“i…i wasn’t…” His eye lights were blown wide. He looked lost, all his normal sharp sarcasm frightened out of him. A thin rill of orange trailed down his chin; he’d bitten his tongue when Edge shook him. “i didn’t think—”

“Obviously you didn’t fucking think,” Edge shouted, cutting off his stuttering excuses, “because if you had, you never would have come here!” He waved an arm at the ruined basket, the food trampled underfoot until it was unrecognizable. “Never past the barricades, I told you! Did you think it was a joke? You could have died over sandwiches!”

There was a distant voice in the back of his head shrieking, trying to warn him he needed to stop. Rus was already shaking, cringing away from his anger, and screaming at him like a banshee was only going to chase him away.

And perhaps it should. Back to Underswap where it was safe, where Rus wouldn’t have to keep watch to make sure he wasn’t about to get torn apart for not obeying rules that weren’t part of his world. Better to turn that fear in his eye lights into fear of Edge, because all he could think of was if he’d been only moments later, less, instead of seeing that fear Edge would be bearing witness to a gruesome scene, the Dogi splattered with marrow, splintering bone in their jagged teeth as they tore Rus apart.

Rus knew he had LV, knew what Underfell was like but there was knowing and there was knowing, and it seemed that Edge’s lessons hadn’t stuck.

He wasn’t safe here.

Edge took a deep breath, cruel words already on the tip of his tongue, ready to lash into him like a verbal whip chasing him all the way back to the machine portal. Hurting him to keep him safe.

Before he could let them loose, Rus suddenly moved, lunging forward, both hands scrabbling at Edge’s heavily padded shirt even as he buried his face into it, his shoulders quivering as he choked out a sob.

And all his righteous anger drained away, swatted down like the eye-watering hum of mosquitoes that sometimes clouded the borders of Waterfall. Edge exhaled slowly, let fury and words fade, and put his arms around him, holding him tightly if only for a moment. He shouldn’t, oh, he shouldn’t, but this time his hands refused his orders and held on, crooning wordlessly as Rus shook, hot wetness seeping into his shirt as he wept out the last dregs of his fear.

Prickling awareness told him though the Dogi were out of his line of sight, it didn’t mean they weren’t watching. By claiming Rus, he’d shown an unexpected vulnerability and the Dogi would be wary to see how he handled it. They’d claimed him as leader, given him their loyalty, and any weakness in him would be their own.

It had taken him months to gain their devotion when he’d become Captain, he couldn’t allow even a seed of dissension to take root.

He gave Rus a moment longer, ghosting his gloved fingers over the curve of his skull, then pulled away, setting a finger beneath his chin to tip up his tear-washed face. Snowflakes scattered across it, clinging to bone, and there was only time for his sockets to widen before Edge kissed him hungrily, pushing his tongue between his parted teeth to taste the syrupy-sweetness of magic on his bitten tongue.

Rus gasped, his breath soft, and leaned into that kiss, returning it with equal fervor. One kiss blended into another, their mouths meeting and parting and meeting again, each one tainted with the desperate knowledge that they might never have had this again. It was difficult for Edge to pull away, to draw in a sharp gulp of the cold Snowdin air to chase away a little of the smothering heat.

That lingering fear was gone, replaced by hazy desire and there was little doubt that he wouldn’t protest if Edge lowered him to the snowy ground and took him, the emptiness left behind by the ebbing fear driving him as he clawed desperately at Edge’s back and begged him for more.

“Rus,” Edge said thickly, and for one brief moment the temptation was overwhelming. It was his stern control that had him reeling back, tamping down his own desire.

No. He wasn’t about to have Rus here, out in the cold slush knowing that others watching rapaciously. Their vicarious enjoyment was too horrifying to consider, and his own jealous pettiness wouldn’t allow them to see Rus that way.

But this wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. Edge wracked his mind, searching for an answer. A collar, they’d said, a mark…

Ah.

Edge unwound his scarf, ignoring the slight tremble in his hands as he briskly wrapped it around Rus’s neck, drawing it up to hood his skull against the falling snow. He only blinked, letting Edge tuck the ends in fussily and then it was done.

It looked good on him, Edge’s colors against his bones. Seeing it filled him with serenity, pouring over his still-agitated LV in a cooling rush, because there was no going back now. The choice was made. No amount of Red’s irritation or his own fears would undo a claiming, and whether or not he knew it, Rus was his. Not the way Edge would have chosen to do it, with the shadowy forest looming around them, only the trees to bear witness.

But Rus’s cheek bones were flush with the warm honey-orange, much better than the colorless fear of earlier, his eye lights shining bright and if he didn’t quite understand the significance of the scarf, he certainly guessed that something passed between them, more than a simple sharing of clothing.

Then he shivered and Edge realized the snow was falling harder.

“Come on,” Edge told him, turning towards town. “Keep behind me and to the side, where I can see you.”

“okay,” Rus said with uncommon meekness. That wouldn’t last, Edge was sure, sass was built into Rus at the ground-level. But so long as it lingered long enough to get him back to town, to safety, that was enough.

Edge gave the scarf a last lingering touch, then turned towards town. The crunch of Rus’s footfalls against the snow was soothing and he could see Rus just out of the corner of his eye socket, the bright crimson of his scarf marking him, little Red Hood following his wolf down the path.

But the only devouring Edge had in mind would be a gentle one, behind closed doors.

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #please read the tags

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damienthepious · 5 years

Text

*taps mic* hello y’all! for this week’s LKT, i proudly present to you... *checks notes* ... *coughs* ... uhh it’s just pwp!!

Awake With Wolf Teeth

[ao3]

[Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, (i'm not a scalie but i'm also not a coward), Pining, Reunion Sex, (jesus fuck how do people tag things i'm such a disaster), Biting, Quiet Sex, Sneaky Sex, (adflkajds i hope y'all like this...... i mean... i do? but what the hell do I know??????)

Summary: Sir Damien has been gone for weeks now, and Lord Arum is incapable of waiting a single moment more before he can hold him again.

Notes: Look. I swear I'm writing smut that's NOT just these two. I have uhhhh three more in the works, two with all three of them and one that's Arum/Rilla. This one just. Took over my brain. uhhhhhhh have fun I hope????? *slinks away anxiously* Title taken from the song Heartbeats, by José González.]

What Arum is doing today ranks on the list of the riskiest things that he has ever done. It is dangerous, and foolish, and completely necessary because if Arum does not get to touch his knight again very soon he feels as if he is going to catch fire and burn up to a husk.

Damien has been gone for more than a month now. The Citadel has him and a cadre of less skilled knights on a pointless hunt for a creature they will almost certainly fail to catch (then again, with Damien’s considerable skill he can be sure of nothing), and Arum has, bit by bit, been losing his ability to function with each day of his absence.

It’s madness, really.

His entire life, it has been just himself and the Keep, but suddenly now that Amaryllis and Damien have insinuated themselves into his life and his heart and his bed, he has become terrifyingly reliant on them. He is furious with Amaryllis about it as well, because she seems to be handling the lack of their knight with substantially more grace than Arum is.

“Hey,” she says as she strokes his arm soothingly, as she kisses the scales beside his frill. “It’s alright, Arum. I’ve just had a lot more practice, worrying about Damien while he’s gone. Of course you want him back. Missing him is nothing to be ashamed of.”

He scoffs, of course. He’s not ashamed, not of this and not of anything. What Arum is, is irritated. He is irritated with Amaryllis, for being so earnest and understanding about the whole thing (he clings to her in bed when she stays the night, and he knows she is as acutely aware of the empty space in their bed as he is). He is irritated with himself for his new and unwelcome weaknesses (like a missing limb, Damien being gone, like his mind is a fuzzy and unwelcome place). He is irritated with Damien himself (a vague mental litany, oscillating between how dare you leave and please come back). He is irritated with the knights that are so ungratefully lucky to share their time with Damien in his absence. He is irritated, he finds, with everyone and everything involved in keeping Arum away from his poet.

“Saints above, just go to him then if you’re so torn up about it,” Amaryllis says a few days later, and behind the exasperation in her tone there is a worry that rankles. The idea of it, though, of seeing Damien early- the very idea sets his heart racing, and he can tell that Amaryllis sees it in his eyes. “According to his letters he’ll be passing pretty close to the western edge of the swamp over the next day or so,” she says. “Just- go and see him before you drive me crazy right along with you.”

“I-” he scoffs. Again. “I am perfectly fine, Amaryllis. I do not need to be coddled or- I do not need to see him.”

“I know,” Amaryllis says with a sigh, and then she lifts a hand to cup his cheek. “But I know that you want to. I get it, Arum, I really do. When we started seeing each other, the first time he left to go on a longer mission, I didn’t even know that I could miss a person like that. Just- promise me if you do go see him, you’ll be careful? Last thing we would need is for one of his little traveling buddies to spot you sneaking around their camp, you know?”

Arum doesn’t even know what part of that to be most offended by, which he later suspects is intentional misdirection on the part of the herbalist, but when she affectionately pats his cheek and departs through a portal back to her hut for her next appointment, Arum can’t stop thinking about the possibility.

Can’t stop thinking about seeing Damien, holding Damien. When he tries to do some work in the greenhouse he drops an entire tray of tools at the unbidden memory of Damien’s dexterous fingers, twirling an arrow before he notches it. He snarls at the Keep when it asks if he is feeling ill, then quickly, quietly apologizes. Obviously he is in no state to work, which has begun to feel more demoralizing than infuriating.

By the time Amaryllis returns to join him for dinner, he relents, defeated, and over their meal she helps him work out the most likely spot for him to potentially intercept their knight. Arum wants to bring her along as well (he does not simply wish to trade which of his lovers he is missing, he wants to have them both, they belong in his arms-), but she shakes her head.

“Maybe you can sneak into a camp of sleeping knights without any issues, Arum, but I don’t exactly have your stealth. You go,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek. “Tell him I miss him and he’d better hurry up. Have fun,” she says with a sly grin, “and be careful.”

And Arum grumbles, and clings even more tightly to her for a long, quiet stretch before the sun goes down, but as soon as it is properly dark he nuzzles a lingering goodbye into her hair and then portals to the westernmost reach of his land.

It doesn’t take more than a few hours to find evidence of them – humans are not adept at crossing the wilderness without leaving a rather obvious trail – and then perhaps an hour more to follow that trail to its conclusion.

The knights are all sleeping in small, individual tents arranged around a central campfire which has already burned down to the dimmest embers, which is rather convenient as far as Arum is concerned. There is a knight he does not know standing watch, but Arum slips past easily with a combination of subtle camouflage and cunning, and it only takes a moment of scenting the air to find the only tent he cares about.

(Arum feels a senseless pulse of fury with the watchman; a monster with half his skill and none of his affection could slip past in the night, endangering his honeysuckle, and that possibility is utterly unacceptable-)

It is too dark for human vision inside Damien’s tent, but Arum is beyond those sorts of limitations. He can see the sleeping form of his knight easily, and he looks smaller without his armor on, looks vulnerable curled alone in a thin bedroll on the uneven ground, and Arum has the hot urge to scoop him up and simply use his emergency packet of swamp dirt to ferry the both of them back home right this instant, to put Damien back exactly where he belongs, in Arum’s bed between himself and their herbalist.

He takes a breath, putting a stopper to his more unreasonable urges, and then he slinks closer.

Damien is a trained and skillful knight, of course, and Damien is also, in a word, vocal, so the first thing Arum does when he is close enough is to very, very gently place one of his palms over Damien’s mouth, running a second hand soothingly through his hair and hissing in a shushing way as Damien’s eyes flutter open in the dark, as his body jolts underneath Arum’s own.

“Only me, honeysuckle,” Arum says in his lowest whisper, close against Damien’s ear, and the knight relaxes so instantly that Arum fears for a moment that he has somehow fallen right back to sleep. Damien lifts his hands, though, pressing his palms against Arum’s chest as if he’s checking that the lizard is actually real. “I hope you will forgive me for waking you,” Arum hisses, uncovering Damien’s mouth now that he’s sure Damien is not going to shout.

“What are you doing here?” Damien whispers, words tumbling together in his haste. “How-”

“You have been gone entirely too long, honeysuckle. I wanted-” Arum starts, but almost every way that he could end that sentence is actually too embarrassing to stand. “I wanted- you,” he settles on eventually, and Arum is close enough that he can feel the way Damien’s breathing shifts deeper.

“I… this is like a dream, Lord Arum,” Damien whispers, joy and desire balancing perfectly on his tongue as his hands drift across Arum’s shoulders. “Each night out here, each night alone, each night has been spent wanting you, wanting Rilla, wanting the both of you together, dreaming of your touch and then waking alone, and to dream your touch and then to realize that it is no dream at all-”

Arum purrs low, Damien’s words working their usual obscene magic on his body, making his own heart race, and he has missed this, he has missed this foolish little creature so absurdly much. He flicks his tongue out to run up the delicious column of Damien’s throat, his hands in Damien’s hair, on his shoulders, pulling the bedroll down. “No dream, honeysuckle,” he breathes. “I… I thought that perhaps you could do with a reminder of what is waiting for you at home, when you complete your little errand out here.” He scrapes his teeth gently back down Damien��s neck, over his shoulder. “I thought I should give you a taste of what you have surely been missing, while I have this chance, while you were close enough to reach.”

“A taste,” Damien repeats breathlessly. “Oh Saints, oh Saints I have been dreaming of a taste nearly every night, my lily-”

“Then allow me to indulge you,” Arum says softly, his hands working quickly and efficiently to pull away the fabric of blankets, the fabric of clothing which separate their bodies, baring Damien's skin and his own scales in the safety of the dark. “Though, you must promise me that you will try to keep control of that tongue of yours as you take that taste. I believe this is what one might call a tryst, honeysuckle, and I do not think that either of us would appreciate interruption by any particularly sharp-eared cohorts of yours.”

Damien’s eyes widen, and Arum suspects that the knight is only now remembering his surroundings in earnest, as surprised as he is with this nighttime visit.

“O-of course,” he pants, and Arum grins in the dark before he slithers his body down.

“Good,” he hisses. “I think, however, that I will take my taste before I give you yours.”

Predictably, Damien makes a soft noise when one of Arum’s hands presses down on his hip and his tongue flicks a tickling line down his stomach, but Damien slaps a hand over his own mouth just in time to muffle the gasp he gives as another of Arum’s hands impatiently finds his hardening cock. He gives Damien a few slow, soft strokes to start, drinking in the way that he trembles and jerks his hips up towards Arum’s touch. This- this is how Damien should be, reveling in joy and touch, utterly spoiled by the caresses of his lovers, appreciated and adored.

Arum moves his hand faster, purring low and entirely out of his own control, and he watches Damien near-silently writhe beneath him.

Damien’s heartbeat- Damien’s heat-

He still and forever fills Arum with an urgent, desperate sort of hunger.

Arum loosens his grip, wrapping his thumb and two fingers around the base of Damien’s cock so that when he slips his tongue out he can twine it around the rest of his length. Damien muffles the noises he can’t help but make, the joyous-overwhelmed gasp that Arum is gleefully familiar with by now, and Arum chuckles, low enough not to be heard but just enough that he knows Damien will feel it.

As his tongue works, twisting and squeezing and flicking, his free hands are quietly busy as well, uncorking the small vial of oil he had the foresight to bring and slicking his fingers (on one of the hands he keeps with claws blunted and softened, just for this, just for giving pleasure to his fragile humans), before he slips them teasingly up the inside of Damien’s thighs.

“Arum,” Damien whispers through his fingers, and his other hand reaches clumsily down through the darkness until he can caress Arum’s face, until he can run his palm up over one of Arum’s horns and grip there, not pushing or pulling Arum where he wants him, but merely scrabbling for purchase as Arum plies and pleasures him. Arum growls low and careful, squeezing his tongue around Damien’s length in a rippling wave, and then he presses a slick finger slowly up and in.

Damien holds his breath rather than whine, and Arum pauses, waits for Damien to relax around him and catch his breath before he moves his hand again. He unwinds his tongue from around Damien’s cock, letting the hand around its base resume its previous determined stroke as he lifts himself to better watch Damien’s reactions as he slowly twists his finger, slowly pumps it in and out.

Careful, careful. Arum is… particularly careful, this night. Particularly attentive, particularly focused. It has been too long since he has been allowed this, and he wants to indulge himself- but more than that, Arum wants very dearly to indulge Damien. To give the poet as much satisfaction as possible, to pleasure him as thoroughly as he is able. He moves his fingers with care, taking his time, treating the poet to the kinds of touches Arum knows he will most enjoy and ensuring that he is more than ready, that he is nearly coming apart with desire before Arum allows a second finger to join the first.

Damien is painfully beautiful. Shatteringly beautiful, like this. Alight from the inside out with rapturous joy, with his strange soft hair falling over his forehead, with his strong, lean musculature tensing and his entire body near-glowing with heat. Arum feels lucky, feels greedy, feels like all his foolishness and yearning in the last few weeks were entirely justified for the sake of this gorgeous, loving creature coming apart beneath him now.

Arum has a hand in Damien’s hair, another carefully circling his nipple with a claw, a third working his cock and the fourth plying him open, every touch focused and just barely skirting the edge of teasing, and only when Damien can barely keep from letting his tiny, torturous noises grow beyond his control, only when he scrabbles his hands desperately on Arum’s sides, clutching and pulling and whispering please please please, only then does Arum oblige him with a third finger.

“If only you could see yourself, honeysuckle,” he murmurs against Damien’s ear, and Damien pants hard and presses his face into Arum’s neck, burying a quiet whine in Arum’s frill. “Oh, the poetry you could compose, if you could see the way you come undone-”

“If I c-could only see you,” Damien mutters in response, his hands clutching tight to Arum’s back as he tries to press himself down harder onto Arum’s fingers, and his voice wavers almost too high when he continues, “a thousand times curse the darkness for keeping your beauty from me tonight, for keeping me from drinking in every single detail of this impossible encounter, for hiding your eyes from me-”

“Shhhhhh,” Arum warns gently, then flicks his tongue quick over Damien’s lips. “I know, dearest creature. When you return home, you may take every single detail from me, you may take me in plain sunlight if you so desire, and you may tell me every single comparison to my eyes and scales and claws you plan to weave into your works, and I even promise not to complain because I will be too spoiled to have you safe and home in my arms again.” Arum pauses long enough to press his mouth against Damien’s, only an almost-kiss until Damien kisses back, until he gasps lightly and dances the tip of his tongue along the sharp edges of Arum’s teeth. “But for now we must be careful, honeysuckle, and quiet.”

Damien nods, panting against Arum’s mouth, and when he whispers, “Sorry,” it comes out nearly soundless.

“No apologies.” Arum nips at Damien’s lip, playful. “I would make you scream for me, honeysuckle, if I could. You know that I would.”

“I know,” Damien whispers, and Arum can feel the pleased heat in his cheeks so he nuzzles against them.

Arum’s hands slow during that exchange, but he still pleasures his poet as they speak their hushed words, and now he twists his fingers inside Damien, watches and feels him squirm underneath him. “So tempting…” he murmurs. “So delicious you look…”

“Please,” Damien hisses, writhing, trying to press the fingers deeper, trying to press his cock into Arum’s hand more effectively. “Please, my lily, I feel as if you are taking me apart- the most blissful torture but torture nonetheless, please, please-”

“You know as well, honeysuckle,” Arum growls, low and slow, “that I can never deny you anything, especially not when you ask so prettily.”

He keeps his grip on Damien’s cock as he slips his fingers away, as he properly slicks the lower of his own two cocks and then lifts Damien’s legs until the angle is just right, until he can line himself up and press forward.

Damien quietly keens as Arum slowly, slowly fills him, heat coiling low in his stomach at how easily the poet takes him, at how eagerly he presses his hips up to meet Arum’s first thrust. He pauses there for a moment, ensuring that Damien is ready, waiting for Damien to give a breathless eager whine before he starts to fuck him in earnest.

He wraps his hand around Damien’s throat. He does not squeeze- he only holds him like that, another layer to the way he is pinning Damien against the ground, feeling Damien’s heart thudding against his fingertips, feeling the vibration of all the tiny noises Damien is holding in as Arum fucks him slow and thorough. One hand tangling in the bedroll beneath him, one hand clutching Arum’s shoulder for purchase, Damien bites his lip hard and doesn’t even seem to notice that his helpless whines are growing lewder and louder with each thrust, and Arum’s heart feels hot with affection but clearly they cannot risk-

“Hush, shhhhh little honeysuckle,” Arum hisses low, pressing a hand over Damien’s mouth gently but firmly to muffle the noise, and Damien rolls his entire body up into Arum, shivering, and Arum blinks in surprise because- he is quite familiar with that reaction from his poet.

“Arum,” Damien gasps into his palm, and Arum feels the vibration of it more than he actually hears the word.

“You… you enjoy that, honeysuckle?” Arum whispers, both teasing and pleased all at once as he rocks fervently, steadily into Damien, holding Damien’s noises carefully back. “You enjoy that I must keep you quiet? You know that I adore every single skill of your tongue, of course, and it pains me that I cannot bask in your noises. I have missed them, missed pulling such sweet song from your lips.” His own lips he keeps close against Damien’s ear, and he flicks his tongue over the seashell curve of it as he pauses to hiss. “Of course, in my greed for you I never paused to consider- do you enjoy being denied, honeysuckle?”

Damien squeezes his eyes shut, panting hard, and nods so slightly that Arum would not have noticed it if he couldn’t feel it through his hand upon him.

“Ahh,” Arum hisses, slips a hand into Damien’s hair, cupping the back of his head and licking up his neck. “You delightful creature… I will indulge you in anything you desire, honeysuckle. I will indulge you even in denial, if it pleases you-”

Damien whispers against his palm, a near-silent litany that Arum takes a long moment to recognize as a repeated murmur, echoing love love love love into his scales, and then Arum has to focus beyond the unceasing rhythm of his hips on burying the helpless growl he wants to make in response.

Damien taps Arum’s side, a small signal but one that Arum quickly responds to, slowing his thrusts and lifting his hand away from his mouth immediately.

“Arum,” Damien breathes, and then bites his lip for a moment, humming low and clinging tighter. “I- I want…”

He trails off entirely and Arum slows further, more rocking them together than thrusting anymore. He scrapes his claws through Damien’s hair again, flicking his tongue out to tease Damien’s neck, then up by his ear. “Whatever you desire,” he says again, low and sure and hungry. Anything Damien wants he would give, anything to make his honeysuckle happy, to keep himself bright and beloved in the poet’s memory, Arum would do anything. “I will give you whatever you desire, if you only ask-”

“Mark me,” Damien chokes, half-swallowing the words, and even in this darkness Arum can see his face darken further, can feel even more heat rushing to fill his cheeks. “I want you to- to mark me.”

Arum blinks, his fingers still caught in the softness of the poet’s hair, his movements still slow and careful. “Honeysuckle?”

“I still feel within a dream, my lily,” Damien murmurs, his own hands caressing up and down Arum’s back. “I fear I will wake and I will be convinced that I imagined you in the depth of my homesickness, my heartsickness. I want- I want proof I can carry with me. I want your teeth upon me,” he says, and Arum’s breath catches sharp. “I want to feel you, I want to feel you still tomorrow. I want the echoes of your touch upon me when you are gone, I want to feel this,” he rocks his hips, meeting Arum’s movements, and Arum has to clench his teeth to keep from growling his overwhelmed pleasure, “I want to feel you for as long as I am able. If you- If you put your teeth to my shoulder, if you bite me there, only I will know-”

“Honeysuckle,” Arum repeats, a shiver running through his body from his horns to his tail.

“It will be hidden by my armor, but I will know,” Damien whispers, and presses his lips against Arum’s neck. “If you leave a mark. It will be proof to remind me, to remind me that you love me, that you gave this pleasure to me, that you wanted me enough to claim me-”

Arum can’t help the way his body responds to that, thrusting deeper into Damien’s heat with a low, controlled purr. “I want you always, Damien,” he murmurs, and then he drags his teeth lightly, so lightly over the skin of Damien’s shoulder. Damien gasps, clasps a hand over his own mouth again as Arum’s teeth tease at his collarbone, as the monster rolls his hips with more purpose. “I want you enough that it makes me foolish, makes me take ridiculous risks, makes me come for you like this, like a thief in the night-”

“A thief,” Damien hisses through his fingers, and then his voice takes on a familiar, lilting, sing-song cadence, though he keeps his volume careful-low. “O come you now to thieve my heart, you beast of fae-wild night?”

Unfair tactics, Arum thinks as his body shudders at Damien’s voice, and then he slips a hand down between their bodies so he can wrap it around Damien’s cock again, stroking in careful time to his thrusts, making Damien’s breath come as ragged as his own between his rhythmic words.

“All craft and guile undone, in vain, your questing overdue,” he gasps. “Within your garden blooms my heart, ‘neath silver stars alight, an off’ring free, my fruit and tree, my monstrous love, for you-”

Arum clenches his teeth, hisses through them, and then he buries his unoccupied hands in Damien’s hair, tilting his head to the side so he can better lick and nip at his throat, so he can drag his teeth with careful promise over the crook of Damien’s neck, over his bare, strong shoulder. “That- clever- tongue- of yours,” he grits out between helpless thrusts, “will be the death of me.” He lets his hands roam as he nuzzles Damien’s throat, as the poet throws his head back and bites his lip to keep the noises in.

“Please,” Damien whispers, reaching out in the darkness, and Arum has no choice but to reach back, tangling their fingers together as Damien rolls his hips, pushing Arum deeper. “My lily, my lily, please-”

Arum growls, burying his face in the crook of Damien’s neck and panting there as Damien provokes him to move faster. “Honeysuckle,” he purrs, “you know I can deny you nothing.”

“Your teeth, Lord Arum.” Damien clings, writhes, tries to press Arum’s snout towards his shoulder. “Please, please-”

“Shhhhh,” Arum soothes, pressing his hand over Damien’s mouth again, gently. He knows the poet too well to do anything else. “Patience, my honeysuckle,” he says, soft with his mouth against Damien’s collarbone. He adjusts his grip, lifting Damien’s hips so he can more easily speed his movements. Arum loosens the careful control he’s been keeping on his pace, reveling in the tiny choked-off noises Damien gasps into his hand as he fucks him harder, fucks him more urgently.

He can feel Damien’s lips moving against his palm, can hear the barest edge of his pleas and quiet cries, but he keeps his teeth light and teasing on Damien’s skin, delays that gratification to instead focus on drawing out every bit of pleasure he can with his thrusts, with his hand around Damien’s cock. Delays, until he can feel Damien trembling beneath and around him, until he can feel Damien start to come apart, overwhelmed tears pooling at the corners of his eyes as they press closed in the darkness.

Then, Arum bites down.

Careful, even in this- his teeth are less sharp than his claws but still he has no wish to draw blood, he only means to give the poet what he asks for, clamping his jaws down over his shoulder with just enough pressure to bruise. The hand he has pressed over Damien’s mouth only barely manages to muffle his cry of mingling pleasure and pain, and it is enough, it is just enough-

Damien comes with a gasp, and Arum holds him, holds him, slows and deepens his thrusts as Damien squeezes around him and spills hot over Arum’s hand and both of their stomachs, and that is just enough as well, the victory of bringing his honeysuckle to the heights of pleasure, and Arum pulls his teeth away from Damien’s delicate skin so that when he finds his own release he can clench them together without worry as he rolls his hips helplessly and comes inside his poet, comes onto his stomach with a muffled hiss.

After a long, panting moment Damien draws on some reserve of strength that baffles Arum and lifts his head, kissing along the line of Arum’s mouth with unselfconscious adoration, and Arum nuzzles back in kind, buffeting their foreheads together and purring his satisfaction as he pulls his hips back slowly, slipping from his lover before they grow uncomfortable.

Arum fishes out a cloth from his cast-aside cloak, cleaning the both of them off with gentle attention and then resettling the blankets around them, curling close and soft and satisfied around his poet.

“You do not know how viciously I wish to carry you off home with me right this instant, honeysuckle,” Arum sighs into Damien’s neck, clinging tight to his warm, pliant body as both of their heartbeats slow. “How terribly I want to spirit you away and keep you in my clutches, to bring you to where you belong, to kidnap you back to the Keep and drop you triumphantly into Amaryllis’ arms…”

“I imagine that you desire it precisely as desperately as I do, my love,” Damien whispers, nuzzling Arum’s cheek with his own, exhaling deeply. He lifts a hand, then, and brushes it over the vivid purpling arc on his shoulder with a distinct look of pleasure, of satisfaction.

Arum feels, just a little, as if his heart is trying to climb up his windpipe.

“Damien,” he whispers, and then he leans down to lick his tongue over the mark, feather-light and soothing. “Perhaps… perhaps I shouldn’t have-”

“Thank you,” Damien interrupts, and then he kisses the corner of Arum’s mouth and comes away smiling. “Not even my unsteady mind could ignore such bold, lingering proof of your affection.”

Arum swallows roughly, then flicks his tongue up Damien’s cheek with fond affection. “Hate having to miss you, honeysuckle,” he admits in a whisper, clinging as if he wishes to pull Damien into himself, as if they could possibly be any closer. “Love you too fiercely to be without you.”

Damien makes a small, pained noise, cupping Arum’s face in his hands and kissing him again, kissing him soft, sweet, like petals and rain. “Oh, my lovely lily,” he says, and Arum can hear the tears he his trying not to shed. “I love you so much. So much that it breaks my heart to be without you, without Rilla…”

“She asked that I pass along that she wishes for you to hasten your quest and hurry home,” Arum mutters, “as, of course, do I.”

Damien sighs. “I know. I intend to be home as soon as I am able, as soon as the Saints allow.”

Arum shifts, and Damien- Damien makes another small noise, clinging tightly, and Arum hears his heart stutter fast for a moment.

He blinks, and drapes himself back over the entirety of Damien’s body indulgently. “Not going anywhere just yet, honeysuckle.”

“I… I am perfectly aware that I cannot keep you here forever, my lily.”

Arum growls lightly. “Nnnno,” he admits, “not forever, not that, of course. But I can stay a little longer, yet.” He buffets his cheek against Damien’s, nuzzling closer, closer. “I can stay until you are asleep again, at least. Until you are dreaming, until I can leave you safe in slumber.”

Damien kisses him, kisses him, cups Arum’s face in his hands, kisses him. “Soon, soon I shall return to the both of you, with new tales and triumph. Soon shall we have our homecoming, earned and exultant, and then I will give to the both of you every single word I have had to carry with me during our separation, every kiss I have wished to press to your lips, every pleasure I have dreamed of spoiling you with… soon, my lily. Soon.”

Damien’s singsong cadence is almost too soothing, and Arum feels as if he could outright melt into Damien’s arms. He sighs, flicks his tongue out to tickle Damien’s jaw, drifts his claws softly up and down Damien’s arms. “It will not be soon enough, honeysuckle. I am an impatient creature. But for you…” his words falter, and he brushes some errant curls away from Damien’s brow. “For you, I will wait.” He pauses. “Impatiently, of course.”

“With an abundance of complaints,” Damien says with a soft laugh, and kisses Arum’s nose.

“Needless to say,” Arum growls, and then he gives a wry sort of smile. “But I have taken enough rest from you already, my poet. No more teasing, now. Return to sleep. I will hold you until you are safe in slumber, and when morning comes…” he drifts his claws careful over the purpling arc on Damien’s skin, “you can carry me with you, until you can return to us in fact and not just in dream and memory.”

Damien purses his lips, expression gone yearning and wild for a brief moment before he nods, lifting one of Arum’s hands to kiss his knuckles, pressing them against his cheek with a sigh. “I love you so dearly, my Arum,” he murmurs.

In this moment, quiet and dark, Arum even feels like he might deserve that.

“I love you, Damien,” he answers, voice rough. “Now sleep, little honeysuckle, and I will watch over you.”

After a few more kisses, (three or four, nine or ten, impossible to say because neither of them count), Damien drifts, his breaths evening out, his heart beating slow and gentle, and Arum holds him close and safe.

And with the poet asleep, no one has to know exactly how long it takes before Arum can bear to tear himself away.

#*shrugs loudly and disappears into the mist*#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #lak;djfsdf this is my 50th fic on ao3 alkdjfa;ldkjf

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samayla · 6 years

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An Utterly Impractical Magician

A Jane Eyre/Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fusion fic.

Also on AO3

Summary: When John Reed burnt Thomas Godbless’ book of magic to spite his cousin, he had no idea how drastically he would alter both her fate and that of English magic.

This fic is a long term project that I’ve been working on for ages... This chapter has been sitting in Scrivener, ready to go, for about a month, but I didn’t want to post it before I had more done. I don’t have much more ready to post, but I’ve decided I don’t care. Expect sporadic, slow updates on this one, but for those of you who enjoy such things, I hope this fic is worth the wait!

Tagging those of you who expressed interest when I asked all those months ago: @bookhobbit @katie-beluga @bryonyashley @wolfinthethorns @kaethe-nicole @warsawmouse @cassandravision @mythopoeticreality @jmlascar @seriouslythoughguys @pink-lemonade-rose @isawatreetoday @rude-are-food @the-stars-above28 @the-candor-shadowhunter

I think I got everyone who’d expressed interest. Let me know if you’d like to be included or removed from the tag list!

1 The book of Thomas Godbless

Gateshead House, November 1804

The widow Sarah Reed of Gateshead House was considered by all her acquaintance to be an exceedingly fashionable woman.

Her clothing and speech were always chosen with the utmost care, in accordance with the latest London fashions. Even her remote Yorkshire home, though it could of course not be held accountable for its unfortunate location, was considered perfectly lovely by all the great London ladies. The rooms were well-appointed in all the latest colors. The fabrics and drapes were all of the latest patterns and styles. The furnishings were arranged to create the most charming settings for morning chats and merry luncheons and afternoon teas and grand dinners.

Even her library was well-stocked with a great many titles, all pleasingly coordinated by subject and author and color of binding — though, in accordance with the very latest fashion, Mrs Reed had only the most perfectly superficial appreciation of her collection. In fact, the only book in her great library that ever received much of that fashionable lady’s attention at all was Proscriptions for the Care and Correction of Children by James Wallace Digby, by which she hoped to ensure her children would always do her as much credit as her hat or her mantelpiece.

Though Digby’s book was filled with all manner of valuable lessons and instructive anecdotes, Mrs Reed was in truth far too weak-willed and changeable a woman to make much real use of it. John Reed, Mrs Reed’s eldest and only son, was always well-dressed, and he stood with the bearing of a young gentleman, but he was prone to fits of temper and destructive tantrums. Miss Eliza Reed was pleasing enough to look at, but spent most of her energy imitating her mother’s fashionable whims and hiding from her French tutor. And Miss Georgiana Reed, a doll-like little creature with manners that charmed all her mother’s friends, had little in the way of independent thought, and was easily swayed to either good or ill by her elder siblings, as she could not tell the difference between such acts herself. In spite of their shortcomings, the Reed children were pretty and quiet in company - much like her hat - and so Mrs Reed felt she was quite free to be exceedingly fond of them.

But Mrs Reed had in her charge one other child — Jane Eyre, the favorite niece of her late husband — and this child was as far from her aunt’s ideal as it was possible for a child to be. All those shortcomings to which Mrs Reed was blind in her own children, became glaringly obvious to her in Jane Eyre. Perpetually pale and thin, Jane lacked her cousins’ lively spirits. She seemed to her aunt unwilling to be pleased with anything, and she argued back when she had much better remain silent. Indeed, poor Mrs Reed could scarcely speak in the girl’s presence without being forced to hear how unfair a thing was, or how a thing was really John Reed’s fault, or how Eliza put Georgiana up to it, or how any one or all of her natural children had started the whole affair, and Jane was merely defending herself, or trying to fix it, or uninvolved entirely. The lies she concocted to escape blame never failed to shock Mrs Reed: if it wasn’t the fault of one of the other children, it was that of faeries or ghosts or talking trees!

Her deepest fear was that John or her girls should pick up on Jane’s nonsense. Little harm could come from it in the case of the girls, as ladies were simply not magicians. But John was beginning to talk of possible careers, and his mother could not bear the idea that he might pursue magic, as Jane’s late father had done. She was not sure which would be worse: the stuffy, reclusive theoretical magician, who was prone to unkempt hair and a decided thickness about the middle, or the yellow-curtained vagabonding magician, with his rotted teeth and ragged hat. She shuddered to think on it. So she did her level best to discourage Jane’s fascination with magic, and if her children did not get on with their cousin either, then Mrs Reed was content to turn a blind eye — in the interest of their future happiness, of course.

Jane, for her own part, was quite content to pass the majority of her time in solitary reading.

Another rainy, dreary day in November had forced Jane and her cousins indoors yet again. Jane did not mind the weather in the least, but six days of rain had put John Reed in an increasingly foul temper. Fearful of becoming the object of his ire, Jane had built herself a little makeshift fortress in the library’s window seat. The thick curtains blocked the fire’s warmth, leaving only the chill from the rain-speckled window to pool around her little body, but this was a favorite hiding place of hers. No matter how many times she chose it, her dimwitted cousins never thought to check it first. Even if John was searching for her already, she should have an hour or perhaps more, before he thought to look behind the curtain. She pulled a shawl from its hiding place beneath the cushion and wrapped it around her shoulders. The cushion, she wedged up along the window to guard against the damp glass, and she settled back in the warmth of a stray sunbeam with her favorite book.

The book of Thomas Godbless had no title. A rather enigmatic swirl of gold leaf instead graced the front cover. Whenever Jane ran her fingers over it, she fancied she could almost understand whatever word that swirl was supposed to represent, like a voice half-heard in another room. It was magic, Jane was certain of it. The same magic that returned the book safely to the library every time Mrs Reed removed it. Thomas Godbless was supposed to be illiterate — several of her father’s other books about magic said as much — so Jane had come to the happy conclusion only a few weeks prior that the book was written by magic, perhaps even with the assistance of Godbless’ fairy servant, Dick-Come-Tuesday. She murmured the fairy’s name, reveling in the whimsy of it, and swore she could feel the book quiver in answer.

She opened the book carefully, ever mindful of the imperfect stitching of its pages, and lost herself in its eccentric spellings and emphatic flourishes.

“Little Rat,” came John Reed’s voice, singsong in the hallway. Jane started and dropped the book, which hit the floor with a resounding thud. “Madam Mope!” John Reed tore the curtain back from Jane’s hiding place. “There you are! Reading again, of course.” He snatched up her book before she could and held it up out of her reach, regarding it with a sneer.

“Give it back!” cried Jane.

Her cousin flipped carelessly through the pages, clearly enjoying the way she cringed at his treatment of the book. “Beg me,” said John. When she did not obey immediately, he turned the book to dangle it by its green leather covers. Jane lunged for the book, but he shook it menacingly, and two pages slipped out of their binding.

“Please, give it back, John.”

He clicked his tongue in disapproval and shook the book again. More pages drifted to the floor, rustling like autumn leaves. “I am Master Reed to you, Pest.”

“Please, Master Reed,” said Jane, with as much subservience as her bold little heart could muster. “Please, give me my book.”

For a moment, Jane thought he meant to return it. He closed the covers and collected the loose pages, tucking them neatly inside, but then everything was stars, and there was a sharp pain in the side of her face. He’d struck her with the heavy volume. “It is not your book, Worm,” said John. He seized her arm to make sure she was paying attention to his next words. “Everything here belongs to me, and I think this looks a great deal like kindling.”

He flung the book into the fireplace.

With a scream, Jane shoved him away. He struck his head on the library table, but Jane scarcely noticed. She threw herself down on the hearth, intent on rescuing her beloved book. Jane plucked a large portion of the book out of the flames, but saw to her dismay that the pages that fell out were entirely blank. Horrified, she looked back to the pages still curling in the flames and frantically pulled them out. Those pages too, had gone blank, but in the sparks and embers and flames flickering around her fingers, she could almost see the words. Could almost hear them in the crackle and pop of the logs. She gasped and inhaled a great mouthful of ashes.

The hot ash was everywhere, in her mouth and nose, her eyes, muffling her hearing. Jane blinked hard to clear her vision, and suddenly, the library was gone. In its place was a vast landscape of open, flat moors and endless, flat sky. Jane felt as if she were a flower, pressed between the pages of some great book, preserved, rather than destroyed by the pressure. A wind rose up, smelling of old paper and dusty leather, and the rustling of the heather became a million million whispering voices. The flat sky became a fathomless depth above her, filling with clouds carried in on the wind. Every curve of cloud was a flourish of ink on the vast page of the sky. Then it was raining, and every drop was a word she could almost understand. The wind whipped around her, pulling the pins from her hair and making a pennant of it. The rain soaked her dress, turning its soft red the color of blood. Then the rain was not rain at all, but ink, and she was black with it: her dress, her arms, her hair.

And then she was back in the library. The howl of the wind became John Reed wailing for his Mama and Jane screaming for her book. Bessie dragged her away from the fire grate, her strong arms wrapped around Jane’s thin waist. Jane’s dress was soaked, and her arms, still stretched desperately toward the flames, were black. The hair straggling in front of her face was black as well. She froze in Bessie’s grip, paralyzed by fright.

She’d just done magic. That other place, with its ink-filled sky, it had been magic, or the place where the magic came from. She wasn’t entirely sure. But in spite of the magic, the book was gone. Pages lay scattered around the grate, blank and half-burnt, and everything was covered in a fine sheen of ash. Jane let out a hoarse sob as Mrs Reed flew into the room and went at once to her son’s side.

“My darling boy,” cried Mrs Reed, her hands fluttering ineffectually about her son’s wounded head. “What happened?”

John Reed raised one quivering hand to point accusingly at his cousin.

“Whatever has that little devil done to you this time?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she rounded on Bessie, who was still working to restrain Jane. “Call for a doctor! And get her out of here! Put her in the Red Room, and have one of the footmen do it, if you can’t manage her yourself.”

The Red Room, as its rather unimaginative name suggested, was a bedroom Mrs Reed had done up entirely in her late husband’s favorite color. It had been his bedroom before his death, and afterward, she hadn’t the heart to change a thing, in spite of numerous updates to the decor of the rest of the house. Mr Reed’s favorite books still lined the little bookshelf in the corner; his clothing still rested inside the bureau; his armchair beside the window still smelled faintly of cigar smoke when the sun warmed the fabric of the cushions. So little had the room changed in the years since her Uncle Reed’s death, that Jane felt quite certain his spirit had lingered too, long after his body had been removed.

Thomas the footman carried Jane to the Red Room, deposited her in the middle of the floor, and fled the room at once, fearful of the usual tantrum this treatment inspired. He locked the door hastily behind himself, but for the first time in her life, Jane had fears that outweighed those of disturbing her uncle’s restless spirit. Her book was gone. It would not be coming back, of that much she was sure. The painful state of her hands dashed any hope that the ancient pages might have survived the flames. Equally certain was the fact that she had somehow become entangled with magic.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye had her heart jumping in her chest. A tiny creature of ink and blood was staring at her from over the dressing table. As its mismatched eyes widened, and a blackened hand rose to its mouth in horror, Jane realized it was her own reflection in the mirror. She had become some fae creature, the changeling child her aunt had always feared. The now odd-eyed stare proved it. Where once her eyes had both been a warm, if unremarkable, brown, the left was now a pale ash grey.

Ink dripped from the singed ends of her hair and streaked blackly from her eyes, and Jane had the notion that she should melt on the spot, become nothing more than an ink stain marring the painfully cheerful rose pattern of the rug. The thought conjured an image of her aunt’s face, and the horror that would no doubt contort her features if she were to find that Jane’s final act in this world was to ruin her beloved rug. She choked, torn halfway between a laugh and a sob, and sank to the floor in a heap of sodden fabric.

As panic gave way to exhaustion, the pain in her hands began to make itself known in earnest. It began as a dull throb in time with her heartbeat, but it quickly grew to the point that Jane felt certain her hands must still be aflame. She bit her lip and wiped them clear of the blackness - soot, she discovered, not ink - using her wet skirt as a handkerchief. She only managed a few fingers before the pain, and a cluster of sparks around the edge of her vision, forced her to stop.

Her head whipped up, but the fireplace was cold. It was always cold, ever since Uncle Reed had slept his last night there.

Sparks flared again in the corner of her eye, by the armchair this time, and Jane staggered to her feet. More sparks by the bed, then by the bureau, then flickering across the ceiling. More and more sparks, until everything in the room was limned in dancing light. It was the fire, Jane was sure of it. The fire that had tasted her hands and consumed her book, had come back to claim the rest of her.

She raced to the door and beat frantically upon it, heedless of the pain in her hands, as she screamed for Thomas to let her out, or for Bessie to come and get her, or anyone at all to come and put out the fire. Bessie at last threw open the door in a great panic, knocking Jane to the floor.

“Oh, Miss Jane!” said Bessie. “What a scream! Whatever is the matter?”

But Jane’s tongue tangled on the taste of ashes, and she could not make the words come, only strangled-sounding sobs. She could barely see Bessie for the sparks filling her vision. She crawled toward the door and clawed her way back to her feet, clinging to Bessie’s black skirt as if it could save her from the fire.

Footsteps in the outer passage announced the arrival of someone else. “What is going on here?” demanded Mrs Reed. “Bessie! I’m surprised at you! The doctor is in with John, and all this screaming and carrying on is disturbing his work. I believe I told you I would fetch Jane from the Red Room myself when I was prepared to deal with her behavior.”

“You did, ma’am,” Bessie confirmed over Jane’s continued hysterics, beginning to push her away from the door, back into the Red Room. Jane wailed, and the sparks flared bright, eating away everything in sight. Her last panicked thought before consciousness fled her was that they would all burn.

#Eyre/Strange Fusion #AnUtterlyImpracticalMagician #jane eyre #jonathan strange and mr norrell #jsamn #my writing

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fire-bear · 2 years

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I posted 4,649 times in 2021

173 posts created (4%)

4476 posts reblogged (96%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 25.9 posts.

I added 4,572 tags in 2021

#patreon - 1155 posts

#all for the game - 727 posts

#the foxhole court - 723 posts

#voltron - 375 posts

#neil josten - 320 posts

#art - 315 posts

#andrew minyard - 301 posts

#keith kogane - 241 posts

#lance mcclain - 238 posts

#fan fiction - 177 posts

Longest Tag: 114 characters

#so to speed things up i actually leaned out of my seat and said 'excuse me' loud enough for one of them to hear me

My Top Posts in 2021

I’ve finally posted the first chapter of my novel! Check it out for £5 a month on the Fire Cub tier! ^.^

25 notes • Posted 2021-02-22 15:27:54 GMT

Special Announcement!

I’ve made a Patreon! A bit of extra cash wouldn’t hurt, but it’s really so that I can be encouraged.

In other words, I’m hoping to have polls running while I write a chapter of something and you can help me decide which story I should write for next. Mainly because I have so many unfinished stories and it would be an incentive if people paid me money to write for the ones they wanted to see more - and then I could get them finished and move on!

I haven’t launched the page yet - I’m going to wait until the weekend and write a better, more in depth post on Monday.

Also, kind of hoping that I’ll do well enough on Patreon so I can quit my job and just focus on writing - but that would be a long way off.

But! Some of the things that will be on it:

Polls to decide on the next story/chapter to be written

Early access to the stuff I’ll post on AO3

Patreon exclusive drabbles/one-shots inspired by my friends’ writing group prompts

Chapters of my novel (and, at some point, a sort of novella I’ve written most of which is only on its 1st draft but I don’t mind posting that as it is), one per month

I’ll probably reblog this with a sort of announcement when I actually launch it and then make a new post on Monday.

30 notes • Posted 2021-01-27 16:29:18 GMT

See the full post

173 notes • Posted 2021-02-23 14:53:58 GMT

I know that links don’t work right here, so...

I have made a Patreon! It will contain such things as:

Early access to my fanfic stories before they’re posted on AO3

Polls to help me decide what to work on after my current project

Patreon exclusive drabbles/one-shots

Exclusive access to the novel I’m writing during NanoWrimo

The tiers are like this:

Ember Cub - £1

A poll to help me decide which of the various fandoms I write for I should turn to for the new story, or whether I should join in a fandom’s creative month or week.

One week early access to any work I post on AO3.

Flame Cub - £2

Another poll to help me decide which specific story I should write for.

Two weeks early access to any work I post on AO3

As well as that first poll

Smoky Cub - £3

Same as before, but also;

Exclusive access to original stories, drabbles and one-shots, usually created thanks to my writing group’s prompts.

(It will also be exclusive access to the first draft of my novella and to other first drafts/first chapters of original stories.)

Fire Cub - £5

Same as the other tiers, but also;

Exclusive access to the novel I’ve been working on for the past few years during Nanowrimo, on its 3rd draft with additional small edits.

The link can be found on the pinned post on my blog!

321 notes • Posted 2021-02-01 14:04:16 GMT

I have made a Patreon! It will contain such things as:

Early access to my fanfic stories before they’re posted on AO3

Polls to help me decide what to work on after my current project

Patreon exclusive drabbles/one-shots

Exclusive access to the novel I’m writing during NanoWrimo

The tiers are like this:

Ember Cub - £1

A poll to help me decide which of the various fandoms I write for I should turn to for the new story, or whether I should join in a fandom’s creative month or week.

One week early access to any work I post on AO3.

Flame Cub - £2

Another poll to help me decide which specific story I should write for.

Two weeks early access to any work I post on AO3

As well as that first poll

Smoky Cub - £3

Same as before, but also;

Exclusive access to original stories, drabbles and one-shots, usually created thanks to my writing group’s prompts.

(It will also be exclusive access to the first draft of my novella and to other first drafts/first chapters of original stories.)

Fire Cub - £5

Same as the other tiers, but also;

Exclusive access to the novel I’ve been working on for the past few years during Nanowrimo, on its 3rd draft with additional small edits.

352 notes • Posted 2021-02-01 14:01:45 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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sundogsandrainbows · 6 years

Text

After Dawn

Fandom: Dragon Age Pairing: Mahariel x Alistair, 2,4k words Genre: Fluff/Humor, Pre-Relationship awkwardness AO3 link: Here Description: Lenya Mahariel was all but a morning person, so Alistair didn't expect to see her to be up already. Then again, he didn't expect... many things regarding her. Belated Birthday gift for my dear @effelants

Alistair woke before dawn, in the hours were the camp and its surroundings were still covered in the hush of night. It was a habit acquired in his years of his templar training and even many months after leaving the Chantry, he couldn't break away from it. Especially not now, where nightmares of darkspawn and about... Ostagar added to the shortness of his sleeping hours.

After dressing in the warmest clothes he possessed, Alistair ducked out of his tent. He stood straight and stretched to rid himself from the last vestiges of sleep. He inhaled the brisk, dry mountain air, which bore a hint of smoke from the still smoldering embers. Shuddering, he stepped near to the smoking coals, the only source of warmth. The campfire needed tending, new tinder to last throughout the morning till they would break camp to advance further up the Frostback Mountain, toward the Gherlen Pass.

Somehow, the closer they came to Orzammar, the colder it seemed to get. Given how they were marching upwards, by now probably a thousand feet above ground, the immense temperature drop shouldn't surprise him. Nor that the grass underneath his boots was crusted in a thin layer of frosted morning dew. Not when the sun was still an hour or more away from rising.

He grabbed a few of the split branches from yesterday's pile and carefully fed the glowing cinder with a thin stick until it sparked a flame. Then he added another and bit by bit thicker branches, until the fire burned again as it did during his guard duty only a couple of hours ago. Warming his hands near the flames, his gaze wandered to the tent across of his own. Lenya had the last guard shift and naturally was still fast asleep. She generally didn't seem to be the type to rise early by choice, however. Every time where they had to set off at daybreak to manage their daily regiment of marching, she did so grousing and with little words. Then again, this also appeared to be her default mood regarding many, if not all, activities. And being stuck as one of the two Wardens in Ferelden during a Blight, Alistair couldn't exactly fault her for being grumpy.

Chuckling to himself, he retrieved an empty cooking pot near the campfire and set out to collect water from an ice-crusted stream nearby the camp. It were these little, mundane tasks which he enjoyed, for they gave him a sense of routine and normalcy. Especially in a time where everything was uncertain and chaotic.

****

An hour later, Alistair had settled down next to the campfire with a cup of warmed up rabbit stew, still slightly sweaty from his morning exercise. Leliana, another early riser, kept him silent company. From the trees enclosing both sides of their camp mountain birds twittered their song. The sunlight streaking through the weave of clouds roused more colors from their sleepy monochrome. Morning had broken, at last.

Alistair rolled his shoulders and barely suppressed a yawn. It would be yet again a long, tiring day on the road.

"Do you think we will reach Orzammar by nightfall?" Leliana asked all the sudden, as if being able to read his mind.

He looked up to her. While her chin-long, auburn hair was neatly combed, the dark circles under her eyes spoke of her tiredness. It had been an exhausting trip on an uneven, rocky terrain, going only further upward the mountain. Well maybe it had been not so for the golem or the Qunari, since they were more grousing about the group lagging behind than the cumbersome journey. Though Alistair decided people lasting twenty days without food and water in a cage and those made out of literal stone didn't get to complain about them needing more breaks in between. Warden stamina, or not.

"I hope so." He let out a sigh and shielded his eyes as he glanced up to the sky above. "If the weather holds and we are marching through, we could manage that. I mean, according to the map, once we have reached the Gherlen Pass, the entrance to Orzammar isn't far anymore."

Leliana's doubting look and a faint snort told him that his optimism wasn't exactly mutual. "Your lips to the Maker's ears, Alistair." She blew on her bowl of hot stew seated in her lap, to cool it down a bit. "You want to rouse the others? If we want to manage your ambitious goal, we should be breaking up camp soon."

"Ah, no." Alistair shook his head. "I like to be alive. So I won't risk losing my head in poking it into Morrigan's tent, nor Lenya's." He shuddered. "Especially not Morrigan's." The corners of his lip twitched upward. "Besides, I already made breakfast."

Leliana rolled her eyes. "More like you warmed up breakfast than made it."

He gave her a shrug. "Breakfast is breakfast. Besides, be glad that I didn't cook it. You would regret it."

She made a face. "Oh yeah. What was that... uniformly grey soup again you made for supper three days ago?"

"Oh that?" He smirked. "Ferelden Lamb and Pew Stew. Only with um, venison, I guess. Since lamb is hard to come by out here." Seeing her irked face, he already knew the answer to his question in advance, but asked in spite. "Why? Did you like it?"

"Liking would be too strong a word, Alistair. And I don't think the wrong meat in there was to blame for its blandness."

"Aww, you wound me. Me and my cooking skill." Ever since Leliana joined their rag-tag group, he couldn't help teasing her. Unlike with Morrigan, his banter with the bard lacked the sharpness or sting of deep-seated dislike. It was friendly, comfortable instead. "Skill as in singular, of course. As in I am only really good in burning food, when cooking. Or throwing everything in a pot." He paused for effect. "Oh wait, I lied then. These are already two skills."

"Maker, how did you survive in the wilderness all these weeks then?"

"A mystery to both of us, I'm sure." Alistair laughed out loud. "I appreciate how you and my fellow Warden are saving me from starvation, of course."

"Speaking of which..." Leliana nodded toward Lenya's tent, from which the elf had just surfaced. "Look who is up."

"Oh good morning, sunshine," he greeted her, well knowing it would be only draw her ire.

The Dalish only stared at him bleary-eyed for a moment and grunted into his general direction. Her wheat-blonde, long hair was unbound and mussy, and covering most of her pale, freckled face. Her over-sized, dark linen tunic hung loose over her hips and looked more like a mismatched dress than a shirt. Without a further word, she vanished behind the line of tall trees at the other side of camp. Trailing her slouchy and sleepy form till its disappearance, Alistair's grin widened.

Yep, she was definitely no morning person. Which was, in its very own way, endearing somehow.

Shaking his head as if needing to lose this trail of thought, his attention snapped back to the bard. "This leaves only Morrigan then. I wish you luck."

Leliana sighed out. "Fine. I'll go. But you better check the snares we laid out together around camp last night, before dealing with packing up your things. Maybe we caught a rabbit or two in it."

"Mmm, more rabbit stew, can't wait."

Putting her bowl aside, she glared at him for the useless comment. "I can always feed your portion to Revas, if you find it so terrible."

As if summoned by the mere combination of his name and the mentioning of food, the mabari darted out from Lenya's tent, knocking it half over in the process. Barking loudly and with his stump tail wagging, he steered directly toward Leliana. But instead of greeting her like she thought, he made a beeline for the bowl of stew she placed on the ground. The slobbering sound right after told Alistair that the mabari had no trouble finding it.

He could hardly contain his laughter. "Looks like you did this just now, Leliana."

"Ugh, so much for breakfast." She sighed again before standing up. "I better go then and wake Morrigan, if she hadn't turned into a bird and flown away overnight."

"Aww, please don't make promises you can't keep."

Her annoyed look was enough to let him refrain from further commentary. "You better think of checking the traps for game. Our rations are running low and I just want to be prepared in case we don't manage to reach Orzammar today."

Leliana was right, of course. Even worse than repeated rabbit stew for days on end was the prospect of only eating hardtack boiled into a mash. "Yes. I will be going - "Alistair noticed a snuffling snout aiming for his portion of his stew and put it out of Revas' reach. "-soon." He gave the hound a baleful look, but instead of being ashamed of his attempted theft, Revas sat down and whined. To strengthen his emotional manipulation, the dog canted his head and glanced up to Alistair with his sad, brown eyes. It would have worked if he hadn't grown up with mabari around him for years, and thus already knew all their tricks. "Nice try, but no," Alistair said, grinning down at him. "You already had your share. This is my breakfast."

Revas huffed out and walked off toward the Qunari to try his luck for more treats there.

****

Laying out traps was usually a task best suited for Lenya, the trained hunter in their group. Maybe even for Morrigan, as she was called witch of the wilds for a reason. Even Leliana was far more ably in that than he was. However due to duty rotation, Alistair was required to take over these tasks as well, however rarely. Collecting the game in the morning after, if there was any, was the easier duty of the two. Given one knew the places where they had been laid out before, of course. Luckily he'd accompanied the bard the evening before and thus could find them again without much difficulty.

However, four of the six traps turned out to be empty, while the bait was gone. Huh, maybe he should watch Lenya laying out traps instead to see how it was done, since her yielding always seemed to be better. With only two snares left to go, Alistair really hoped to find some less intelligent rodents in it, or it would be back to mushed up hardtack for supper.

Not relishing the thought, he shuddered as he steered toward the fifth trap left behind a line of trees. Alistair stopped in front of them without entering the clearing, because of a telltale hum buzzing in his head. His fellow Warden was still here and hadn't returned to camp yet like he prior thought. Since the stream was on the other side of camp, he wouldn't run into her bathing, or half-naked, at least. That would really be awkward for the approximately five minutes he then had still left to live after that.

Looking upwards to the treetops that appeared to be sky-high, he huffed out a nervous breath. Maker, that woman was indeed terrifying. Alistair was convinced she could make the archdemon leaving and go back to its old god slumber for another thousand years, simply by demanding it from the creature.

With that thought in mind, he entered the clearing, only to immediately halt again a few steps in. Alistair saw his fellow Warden hanging sideways from a sturdy, thick tree branch, her back turned to him. He rushed toward Lenya to help her, since she dangled about ten feet above ground -which was nearly twice her height. But then she pulled herself up with ease until her head was above the level of the branch, then went back to let herself hang for a moment. Right after, she repeated the motion, her legs held completely still as she pulled herself up again.

With the initial panic about her being in danger gone, Alistair also registered that Lenya had forgone her dark shirt, coldness in spite. Which left her wearing only her breastband, and him inappropriately staring at her toned back. The motion of her continued pullups did... interesting things to her back and arms, and... had she always been so lean-muscled? Was this normal for Dalish? The elves he had seen had all been much thinner, nearly scrawny in comparison. And why was he even still watching? He really, really should look away now, as long he still had the chance to somehow salvage this situation. He felt the heat burning in his cheeks, then it trailed further downwards to settle in his stomach. It was suddenly much, much warmer.

Averting his eyes at last, Alistair cleared his throat. It was as much to announce his presence as it was to cover up his own awkwardness. In his peripheral vision he noticed how she let go of the branch and landing gracefully on the ground with a crouch.

"Alistair?" She was walking up to him, sweaty and near half-naked. That fact confused his fight-or-flight reflex to the point of being rooted on the spot. "What are you doing here?"

"Y-you are not dressed," he blurted out, shielding his eyes with one hand.

Lenya let out a groan. "I am not naked either."

"P-please get dressed."

"Fine," she replied in the same annoyed tone and stepped away from him. Presumably to fetch her discarded tunic from the ground. Alistair wasn't looking to check that, though. "You shems and your weird concept of modesty. How you ever exercise with wearing that many layer of clothes?"

It is not weird, he thought, while trying to refrain from thinking of elves frolicking naked through the woods. Bad brain, baaad. "Are you not cold?" he asked instead.

"No. Not anymore." Alistair heard the rustle of fabric as she put her shirt back on. "Helps me to get awake on a shitty morning too."

"I see." He let his hand fall back to his side and opened his eyes again. Sweaty strands of her hair, now tucked up into a messy bun, were plastered to her tattooed forehead. She was breathing heavily and her otherwise fair skin was flushed, heated from the exercise. He blinked slowly, watching her expression shifting into a scowl due to his continued staring.

"I came here to check the snare we laid out," Alistair said then, too fast and out of place. "I -" He left the sentence hanging. Turning on his heels, he darted into the opposite direction, the trap long forgotten.

#alistair theirin #da fic #lenya mahariel #warden mahariel #dragon age #lenyastair #otp: we always had each other #meri writes things #fic nonsense

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